A Taste of Something
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: "Did you know that Alice's Wonderland was not meant to represent some fantasy realm? Rather, it is what a certain Reverend assumed our world would devolve into should unreal mathematics be accepted. Yet, those abstract formulas have become facts, and life has not gone topsy-turvy. Which means...?" "It means we've been in Wonderland all along." [Sequel to "Butterfly Weed"]
1. I

**Disclaimer: **I own nada.

**Author's Note: **Oh dear God, what am I doing. What am I doing. I don't write chapter fics anymore. What is this. Oh, no. Oh, crap. Dammit, Dangersocks! Damn you and your being ridiculously inspiring—!

**Warnings: **Part of the "Resurrection Lily" series; takes place immediately after "Butterfly Weed." That makes this a Victorian era monster-hunting AU. Woo. Earl pining for Cecil pining for Carlos (pining for reason). Tarot cards and flowers and gems and religious stuff. _Technically_ a mystery…? But a bad one. Focuses way more on character development. Alludes to other RL fics, specifically "Butterfly Weed" and the "Fortune Favours" stories, **_which can be read on AO3._** Capitalization abuse. Dangersocks was kind enough to beta this piece for me; any errors that remain are the results of my own nonexistent editing abilities.

**XXX**

**A Taste of Something**

**X**

_I_

"On that day I swore to them that I would bring them out of the land of Egypt and into a land that I had searched out for them, a land flowing with milk and honey, the most glorious of all lands."

-Ezekiel 20:6

**XXX**

Carlos believes firmly in black and white.

He believes in the quantifiable. He believes in truth. He believes in science, which has laws and rules and theories that rigorous experimentation can either prove or refute. He enjoys arithmetic, respects its discipline; even inebriated, he would never be so foolish as to claim that one and one made anything other than two. That's what makes mathematics so elegant. There is structure to it. There is a structure to everything— a hierarchy to the natural world, just as in polite society— and Carlos sees it all as it is meant to be seen: with brightness, clarity. There is black and white. There is day and night. There is right and wrong and he knows the difference, knows how to test for it, even when others falter and attribute variables to bogymen and ghosts.

And that is where the difference lies, ultimately, between Carlos and others of his ilk: when bogymen and ghosts crop up on the data spreads of his peers, they recalibrate, assuming a mistake had been made along the way. Carlos, on the other hand, continues testing the bogymen and ghosts.

For while Carlos is a firm believer in black and white, he realizes humanity lives in grayscale. Day is never breached without the haze of sunrise, and night can only come after phasing through twilight. Nature is perfect, but those living within it are not; there are illogicalities, mutations, bizarre genetic throwbacks. One and one make two, of course, but in a few choice circumstances, also eleven. And because he acknowledges this, the flexibility of the three-dimensional world when taken off of a two-dimensional sheet of paper, he's seen his work systematically rebuked by the majority of the scientific community. Tramping home from yet another failed debate at a local university, Carlos feels keenly the thorns of his peers' contempt, lingering beneath his skin and steadily bleeding his spirit from him. Derision has begun to weigh heavily upon him.

"Are you all right?"

It is not alone in doing so. Either that, or an emotional concept has suddenly gained physical mass. But even in the foggy fugue of a pulsing migraine, Carlos shoves that thought aside, branding it ridiculous. _Something_ had sent him crashing to the concrete, winded and wheezing, but as whatever-it-was had manifested nowhere near his heart, it seemed a bit of a stretch to be blaming personified distress. As if that wouldn't have been a stretch, regardless.

But then, any situation that ended with Carlos sprawled on his back, gawping up at the sky and a baby-faced stranger would've been seen as a stretch a mere minute ago.

"Oh dear, oh dear," his assailant is saying, wringing gloved hands and swallowing hard. Comically hard. The serpentine surge of the stranger's esophagus continues down his spine in a sinuous wave; warmth washes through Carlos, and not exclusively from additional body heat. The pink tinge of surprise and unanticipated closeness becomes ruddy as the other's body rolls against his own. It's absolutely obscene. "I am ever so sorry, my Good Man! I had no idea there was anyone below! Truly, I didn't!"

Truly, he hadn't. The young man seems on the brink of hyperventilating due to guilt alone; he is panting, and heaving, and flushed, his nerves shuddering down his limbs in a fashion that only exacerbates the situation. Or, at least, does the opposite of help. The fussing stranger isn't sure how to help, though he clearly wants to: he flinches, then reaches out, then winces back again in a series of gestures that have him unintentionally grinding down against the crest of Carlos' hips. Settling, lifting, settling, shifting. Carlos groans, head throbbing as he throws it back in pain. Definitely pain. Mostly pain. In his head. Only there.

"Goodness—is your brain swelling? Is the ache intensifying?" the young man demands, breathlessly quick. Leather-sheathed fingers poke delicately at Carlos' temples, at his cheeks, contorting his features in much the same way as the stranger's own expression contorts. "Bother, but I fear that further prodding will only serve to worsen your condition! To what forest has my Elf absconded with his medicines? Oh, but this is terrible, absolutely dreadful! I offer you my sincerest and most humble apologies, dear Sir! Can you stand?!"

The earnestness of his concern is very flattering. Still, it is not enough to spare him an unbelievably droll glare.

"Not with… you on top of me," the sullen Scientist rasps, in a tone so remarkably dry that it seems to suck moisture from the surrounding air. Literally. At least, that's the phenomenon Carlos chooses to blame for the current of static shocks presently using his veins as conduits. Sparks snap and crackle behind his eyes, inside his stomach, beneath every point of contact. "Do you _mind_…?"

"Oh. Oh! Yes!" the stranger chirps, shrill and eager as a chick. Birdbrained, too, apparently; it takes a moment, but then— as realization dawns across his face in pasty shades of puce— he scrambles both to correct himself, and to flee the perch of Carlos' pelvis. He appears mortified, now. Blushing, the young man stares at anything other than the Scientist he'd unwittingly molested, very pointedly Not Noticing the single eyebrow lifted in his direction. "I beg your pardon, goodness, I mean—no! No, I do not mind. And yes, I'll get up. That is, I _got _up. Which you are aware of, seeing as— Um. My sincerest apologies," he finishes feebly, features scarlet in his sheepishness. Though Carlos is the one who'd just become acquainted with the concrete, his inadvertent attacker looks as if he'd like to make best friends with it. He glances furtively at the brick wall of the adjacent alley, and Carlos can practically _feel _his desire to embrace it. With his forehead. Repeatedly.

But there is a time, and there is a place, and here and now is not it. In lieu of self-mutilation, the stranger extends a bejeweled hand, wordlessly offering to help his victim sit up. With some effort, Carlos manages to artlessly drop his palm atop the other's; he pretends not to hear the reverent gasp when he does so. Or feel a fizz of agreeable electricity. In fairness, _most_ of his limbs feel like cushions for pins and needles. Lumps and bruises are beginning to form beneath torn sheaths of skin… When he breathes too deeply, an unwelcome sharpness digs into his lungs.

Hm. That can't be good.

"Er. Is there…" The young man before him hesitates, gracefully crouched. Poised. Such aplomb seems at odds with the shrill of his voice, Carlos observes, the thought striking him at nearly the same instant as it does the stranger. How embarrassing. Flustered for new reasons, now, in addition to the old, said stranger colors once more, touching his throat. Coughs delicately. Tries again, with less strain, "That is— oh, this is terribly presumptuous of me, but… Might I take you somewhere?"

He pauses, courteous, awaiting a response. Any sort of response. But Carlos, slack-jawed and gaping, is no longer listening. He is _hearing_, certainly— cleared of its anxious squeak, the other's voice ribbons at a lower, more pleasing frequency, one that cottons ringing ear and leaves a mind cozily fuzzy—but he isn't _listening_. Instead, he is feeling. And _not_ feeling. The velvet baritone of the stranger's hypnotic lilt drains the anxiety out of the battered Scientist, sluiced humors spiraling down the hollow of his spine as if it were a drain. Adrenaline follows in kind, its ice turned to slush and flushed away. But without that, he's…

Suddenly Carlos is feeling… feeling a bit…

Something has coiled around his sleeve. The additional pressure registers distantly, as does the way that leverage hefts at him; there are two strangers looming above him, now, overlain against each other and different shades of insubstantial gray. That seems odd. The Scientist tries to blink, to clear his vision, but one of his lids stutters, stuck. That voice prattles on.

"Uh, not _out_, of course. My, that really _would _be presumptuous! Especially now, when you are in such a state. Which is not to say you no longer look presentable, of course! Merely that, well, after sustaining injuries, resting is of great benefit to the human body, so…"

_That voice. _Where had he…? _Where_—? Oh, something is niggling at him. _Something _is eating holes into Carlos' thoughts, nibbling away at the tissues of his brain as a maggot would a corpse. The mental image sticks with him—grave soil sloughing off of bone, flowers blooming from exposed marrow— and it makes his head _spin_. Everything spins, in smears and blurred lines: maypole garlands twirling around an immaterial focal point. His focus is groundless, yet sound. No—it _is _sound. As he is now, dreamily disconnected from both sense and senses, the sound of that voice fills him with…

"_So. _What I meant to say was that my driver is nearby, my Lord, and I would be more than willing to escort you wherever it is that y— _Sir?!_"

Carlos believes firmly in black and white. So it almost seems poetic, really, that the last thing to register before his world goes dark are the widest, palest eyes that he has ever seen.

**X**

"—nd you are _quite sure_ that none of his teeth have been broken? Lost? Chipped?"

He wonders—vaguely, madly, and only for a moment—if he might be swimming.

"Marquis, Sir, as I have told you multiple times now, I am not a dentist. However, I can assure you with all manner of professional certainty that the only visible damage done to his cranial area was a rather large bump left upon the back of it. Though that does seem to have induced a concussion."

He feels like he is swimming, anyway. Somewhere deep, but warm. His thoughts are ripples across that mysterious pool, shallow and far-reaching and quick to fade to nothingness. His body—as he becomes aware of it, knees and toes and elbows and fingertips— is heavy. Supine. The Scientist wonders if he might be floating just-beneath the filmy surface, where voices are audible but distorted. He recognizes one, at least, wobbling high and low as waves of consciousness roll over him. There are bubbles in his ears, stretched excruciatingly large against the drums. Threatening to pop.

"Excellent. That is very good to hear."

The blackness is flowing in and away, ebbing like low tide. The sudden rush of its absence leaves Carlos feeling cold, oversensitive. But very much awake.

"I beg to differ, my Lord. A concussion is hardly—"

"Ah!" Carlos—with the groggy groan of a man battling oblivion— feels the teeth of previous discussion clench within his jaw, the whole of his body wincing as the dulcet tones of a nearby speaker abruptly become much less dulcet. Much more loud. With some effort, the Scientist manages to pry apart his gummy lashes, just in time to catch the stranger from before scooting himself, and the straight-backed chair he'd been sitting in, rather slovenly forward. The legs of the seat show some resistance against the hardwood floor; Carlos flinches again at the oaken squeal of it. "You're awake! Thank Heavens for that. And thank _you_, Doctor Thurgood," he adds, addressing the white swathed woman hovering behind him. "Your expertise is always appreciated. That will be sufficient for now."

Said woman—tall, with hawk-like features and an equable demeanor— gives a crisp nod of understanding, intelligent eyes flicking briefly between the two men. "Very good, Sir," she drawls. "I shall take my leave, then."

She's barely finished speaking before she moves to do exactly that. Said movement begins with one of the doctor's hands making a grab for the ribbon of her pinafore; it unravels with a hiss and a billow like steam as she and her skirts neatly twirl. The momentum of the spin has the apron sliding off her slender body, folding itself over the crook of her arm with a subtle _snap_ of crisp laundry_. _With a fluidity that Carlos cannot help but envy, she simultaneously lobs a stethoscope and a clipboard into the mouth of a nearby medical bag. The latter angles itself in such a way that the top of the case closes behind it; she scoops the satchel up without missing a beat, and whisks out the door as Big Ben strikes five.

Carlos blinks. Wonders if he might still be dreaming. Opens his mouth to comment on the most ridiculously stylish exit he's ever witnessed… But instead hears himself observing, "This is my bedroom."

And indeed, it is. It's his townhouse bedroom. Not the master bedroom—the luxurious chamber of gold inlay and mahogany furnishings that, by every account, a Baron of his stature _should_ be using as his sleeping quarters. No, it's the room that he prefers to use—smaller, simpler, with cream colored walls and a window seat overlooking the greater part of London's downtown. He is cradled by the indentation that his back had long-since worn into the mattress, covered by a blanket dotted in minute constellations of stains that he can name. There is a comfort in this discovery.

There is also fear, like the chill of ice melting down his back, because Carlos can think of no reason at all that the stranger before him should have known this. Any of this. Not where he lives, and certainly not where he sleeps. And how on earth had he charmed his way past the Baron's staff…?

The Marquis—yes, that's right, he'd heard the Doctor refer to him as such— at least has the good grace to look embarrassed. "Yes, well," he hedges, coughing daintily as he readjusts himself atop Carlos' wingchair. Carlos wishes he would stop fidgeting. It's difficult enough to focus as it is. "Please pardon the intrusion. It was ever so forward to invite myself in, I know, but… Personally, I loathe hospitals— simply cannot stand them—, and I suppose I suffered the assumption that you, too, would prefer to be taken home."

His long fingers slide and slat against one another, building shifting foundations of nervousness. Carlos watches the gem upon his pinkie gleam for a spell—a rusty burst of color that he cannot help thinking would be better suited to a brooch— before realizing dreamily that his only clear memory of this man is of his hands. Hand. The one that had reached for him. The shadow of the sun (and the aftermath of physical trauma) had fuzzed the edges of any other features he'd observed before…

With a bit of effort (and more than a bit of pain), Carlos twists his head to lookat his would-be aggressor. No, not to look— to _see_. Tact is too refined a tool for one as injured as the Scientist to be expected to employ; the Marquis blushes a splotchy magenta under the weight of such an obvious inspection. The faceted hue is a compliment to the milky expanse of his smooth, clear skin, but clashes garishly with the tanzanite of his cravat. His waistcoat is of a similar shade, a shimmery lilac emblazoned with silver; his trousers and tailcoats are a plum so deep they nearly look black. Carlos would be hard-pressed to say he'd ever seen someone so… violet before. The odd purple aura of his attire reflects oddly in his bespectacled eyes, and for a moment Carlos thinks they, too, might be some tint of lavender— but no. No, they are, in fact, so ghostly blue that the Baron would've had difficulty separating the irises from the whites had it not been for a clear perimeter of… a color. He squints, tipping his head as he tries to determine which. But at some angles, the pale band is aquamarine; others, sea foam green, or sunrise umber, or sweetpea pink. What strange effect is this? Not albinism, as he had presumed previously. Certainly not. But then what…?

"Fascinating…" Carlos hears himself mumble, craning his neck this way and that, trying to catch as many tinctures as he can. Forward and back and forward again, and it's only when the flesh around those wide, wide eyes starts to smolder a distracting shade of mauve that the Scientist realizes his nose is a hair away from touching the Marquis'. It is his turn to blush, then; he scrambles away as quickly as his pounding headache will allow. "Oh, er. M-my apologies," he grunts, horrified by his own absurdity. He's not particularly pleased with his awkward crab-walk, either.

The Marquis, ram-rod straight and temporarily petrified by his peer's proximity, responds with a wet choking noise. It sounds forgiving enough. Embarrassed enough. And there is some solace, Carlos imagines, in the overwhelming and thoroughly obvious sense of self-mortification that they seem to share. "Think… think nothing of it," the other eventually manages, forcing himself to relax—if but a fraction— against the velvet of the chair. The tips of his ears are blistering beneath the ash blonde of his tresses. Carlos can nearly feel the heat radiating off of them. Undoubtedly his guest can, as well, what with how he is rubbing at his cheeks, forehead. The Baron is kind enough to attribute a series of small squeaks to the leather of those gloves. "Such intensive scrutiny was undoubtedly the mark of Science being performed, correct? I am honored that a Scientist of your intellect and pedigree would consider me a subject worth observing."

"Oh, I am hardly—" No, wait. _Wait a moment_. The knee-jerk refutation is quick to collide with the wall of Carlos' frown, the wreckage of which is swept swiftly away. The settling dust—of assumptions and hypotheses— allow a few previous concerns to crawl back to the forefront of his mind. "How do you know that?" he queries, slinking warily into the down of stacked pillows. The stare he levels the Marquis is just this side of suspicious. "That I am a Scientist, I mean. I suppose I am a member of the gentry, but hardly worthy of note, let alone fame. It is not as if my profession or housing is common knowledge to the vast majority of London. And we have never before met, you and I. Not that I… remember, anyway," he trails off vaguely, kneading too at the crease in his brow. "So— so where might you have procured such knowledge, Sir?"

There is a thorn of accusation in the final demand, and the Marquis flinches at the prick of it. His young face—he could hardly be older than 20— looks all the more infantile in his upset. "Oh my. This whole ordeal reflects so poorly upon my person, doesn't it?" he bemoans, woeful, his every syllable languid with moroseness. A sigh falls from parted lips; a thumb and forefinger brace more firmly against his puckered temple. He adjusts once more, and Carlos finally notes the faintest echo of chimes… Belatedly, he spots the charms and chain of an ornamental fob, looped properly through the other's waistcoat but with no watch to hold it in place. Another strange detail about the very strange man. "You deserve answers to all of those questions, of course. Those questions, and many more. However, as much as it grieves me to risk your continued distrust, I am afraid that, at present, I can say no more to you than this: you and your military cemetery teeth are in grave danger, Carlos the Scientist."

"I… huh?" His military _what_?

The Marquis doesn't seem to hear his confusion. Or, if he does, he chalks it up to earlier concerns. "Let us speak in more detail soon, at some safer location," he continues simply, clambering to his feet with a sudden fleetness. With purpose, and import, like a man distracted. Carlos does see him throw a few surreptitious glances in the direction of the window, despite the evident pains he puts into being discreet; unfortunately, the avian cry that had come from beyond the glass does not help with matters of inconspicuousness. The Baron wonders dimly about the stone-set line of his guest's jaw, and the severity of his sidelong gaze. Though the look is not being directed at him— far from it; the Marquis is smiling cheerfully when he once more meets Carlos' eyes— the flicker of such an austere expression upon that face is enough to incite shivers. Then again, Carlos finds that the Marquis' grin incites the same. Full-bodied judders: the sort that somersault down a spine and settle heavily in the stomach. The dizzying kind. (His concussion must be severe, indeed.) "Once more, I beg your pardon for today's _countless_ offenses. Once you are up to dick, I will, of course, make things up to you."

"You really needn't—" Carlos begins, almost frantic, as the thought of seeing this man— this apparent _stalker_—, again sets his heart racing. But the protest ends before it's properly begun; the Marquis, somewhere near the door, has turned and grinned, tipping a top hat that the Baron had previously failed to notice.

"Oh, but it is not about _need_, dear Carlos," he is swift to insist, in tendrils of honeyed words that twine thickly around him, around each other. Each syllable is warm and enveloping, like the cloak that Carlos had _also_ somehow missed. Though, he could swear that his guest seems surprised by it, too, judging from the twitch of his nostrils. Or maybe not surprised. Maybe shocked, in that way that most are upon finding something they'd forgotten— and in their fist, of all places. But if this is meant to epitomize some eccentricity of character, the warning is short-lived; with a flick, the cape flares outward, blanketing the Marquis' slender shoulders with a grace that wipes all other observations from the Baron's mind. The trick (if that is what it is) makes him think of magicians. Magicians, upside down and staring. A painted face on bewitching cards. But— _why? _And _where_ had— and, and _how_ had— and did he just call him—? "No, it is most certainly not about need. It is about desire."

…_Oh. _For an instant, a beautiful instant, everything both around and inside of the Baron grinds to a stop. Carlos refuses to acknowledge the way that his mouth dries. Words, in kind, refuse to cooperate with his tongue. Oh.

"Well, then." Those dark leather gloves disappear for a moment within the folds of the wine-red cape; a heartbeat later, and they reemerge with a flick of the wrist. A whisper of aerodynamic parchment. In a gesture as nonchalantly extraordinary as that Doctor's departure, the Marquis sends an elongated calling card soaring and spinning with remarkable ease. It cuts through the air between them without resistance, only to land with an artful twirl upon the bed stand. One, two, three; it pirouettes to a tidy halt just before Carlos' hand, its ornate design reminiscent of stained glass and tarot.

_Cecil Palmer, Marquis of Night Vale_, loops of elegant calligraphy read. _The Community Radio._

Carlos' head _throbs. _

"I shall anticipate the gift of yours when I have earned your trust," the Marquis— Cecil, _Cecil, _why is that name so _familiar_— purrs beside the jamb, his winking teeth somehow whiter than his eyes. It's disconcerting. All of this is so… "I do hope to see you presently."

The Baron can manage no more than a grunt. And then his guest is gone.

**X**

The world beyond the Scientist's painted door is an eclectic mess of bodies, noises, smells. Contained chaos. Carriages covered in salt-crusted paint clatter down the cobbled alleys, their spoke wheels turning in time to the rhythmic clop of horse hooves. Dresses susurrate, swallowtails sway. Fashionable heels and capped canes beat against the sidewalk, decorative spatterdashes both dashing and spattering the mist that rises in plumes from tarnished gutters. The burst tendrils of each hoary spray are quick to meld into the gray of the brisk air; high above, the smokestacks and chimneys of the Queen's empire belch similar blackness into the sky, as if to summon an early midnight. The rise and fall of a hundred different voices—canting high, dropping low, guttural and shrill and sweet and sour—only serve to further augment the illusion of witchcraft.

The collective drone melds in the shell of his ears, becoming a wordless, ceremonial chant. The daily rituals of London's humans.

One of whom is standing very, very close beside him.

"Impatience is dangerous, my bricky boy. Even salamanders will burn upon entering embers too quickly," Cecil says in way of greeting, his back to the streets and his hand still upon the glossy knob. The lightness of his tone hints at a rotting displeasure behind his mask of measured apathy; it is a style of poised pouting that his companion has had much experience dealing with. The Marquis' features may be carefully composed, but for all that the expression hides, he might as well have been openly sulking. "There was no need to have Angbjorn rush matters. I'd have taken my leave shortly, without you causing a fuss."

His protest is answered by a cynical snort. It communicates all that it needs to and more. Far more than is necessary, really. Cecil, justifiably affronted by the insult of it all, huffs in soft outrage and turns disbelieving eyes upon his associate, his features pinched in disbelief and hurt. Rude!Such rudeness would be enough to have any normal man seeing red. But then, the Marquis would have been seeing red, regardless: the one who looms upon his right is cloaked in swaths of Scout scarlet, dark as a stain of fresh blood. Beneath the shadow of a lifted hood, his flaming hair is equally similar in shade—and a near-perfect match for the burgundy flecks in his unblinking auburn eyes.

"You doubt my words?" Cecil laments, nearly as animated as his friend is deadpanned. "Young Master Harlan, your distrust wounds me in ways that little else can. After all we have together chased, all we have together suffered, I _would_ have hoped you might realize how I prioritize our efforts, despite claims to the contrary. I do what I must for the sake of the chase. We are ever-busy! To humor distractions of any sort would put us at— at undue risk, not to mention… that… it got away, didn't it," the Marquis finishes lamely, guiltily, as Earl continues to stare. To do anything else would be superfluous, at this point. Or, worse still, would cause a reaction that might wear dull the edge of Earl's reasonable irritation. He has every right to be annoyed. He has every right to feel this way for _at least_ a good hour.

But then Cecil's shame manifests upon his face, his martyred features doleful above the lip he ruefully bites. "Earl, oh— nothing is going right today, is it? I owe you my most heartfelt apologies, child. My error was uncharacteristically grievous. I thought— well, honestly, I've found it a bit… a bit difficult to think, lately, I just—" The Marquis scowls in response to his own failings, rubbing at his temple as if to massage thoughts back into their proper places. It does not appear to have the desired effect. Neither does palming his furrowed brow, or clenching his trembling fingers. Sensing the futility of it all, he drops his head, his hands, and his voice, all at once: "Blast! This is entirely my fault. My head is a mess. That is no excuse. I should have used—"

"No, Mister Palmer, you shouldn't have. You will wear yourself out," Earl interrupts, in a tone that leaves no room for discussion. There are a few gaps for frustrated sighs to sneak in, though.

"It has never switched victims mid-hunt before! If I had realized—That is, ever since I saw him, I suspected that… But…" Cecil hesitates, grimaces, on the verge of some great confession… Only to cut himself off with a dismissive shake of his head, searching for some other pronouncement to tie to the dangling end of his preceding thought. He finds it swaddled around his person, and eagerly brings Earl's attention to its drape. "But—but look! I _did_ have the presence of mind to remember my cloak! I fastened the pins and everything. So, I— um… hmm. That is even _less_ impressive said aloud than it'd been in my head," the shorter man admits, his askance glance touched by a flustered brand of embarrassment. "Curses. Well, if there will be no salvaging this situation, I can at least grant us another go. If you would, please, give me a moment. I might yet be able to locate it again…"

With a flail of lanky limbs, the Marquis begins to rifle about beneath the folds of his cape, elbows and forearms creating temporary tents in the heavy fabric. He mutters something inaudible. It does not sound particularly gentlemanly. Fortunately, three ticks of Earl's pocket watch mask the majority of any crude comments, and that time is all Cecil needs for his hunt to prove fruitful. Triumphant, he breaks free of his foppery's strictures, thrusting his palm into the cold of the afternoon. Beneath the gauzy rays of a weak winter sun, gloved fingers glisten as if dipped in spilt oil; puddled beneath those tendrils lie a collection of polished runes, carved from bloodstone and imbued with archaic symbols. The rust-splotched surfaces of the stones shine a wet, dark jade.

Cecil takes a deep breath. He moves to toss them.

"_Psalmus David Dominus reget me et nihi—_"

A callused hand falls heavily atop his smaller fist, curling around it and applying a pointed squeeze. Faintly startled, the Marquis glances back at the face beneath the lifted cowl; peeks, really, like a timid child searching out tells of forgiveness on the features of an irked parent. Earl, for his part, looks tired beneath his freckles. Not so much from any recent physical exertion, but from his flinty exterior being systematically worn, frayed to the exposed tips of his nerves. It is the emotional weariness known to all caretakers.

"Are you all right, Cecil?" Earl sighs, inwardly cursing himself, and adding that justified hour of irritation to the rest of the lost time he keeps mental tabs on. Once denoted, he allows his shoulders to sag; the left droops more fully when his companion lowers his arm to his side, but even then, Earl makes no move to remove his hand. Cecil makes no move to step out of the embrace. He does, however, cock his head, faintly confused.

"But of course. Whyever wouldn't I be? The headache is manageable, I assure you."

"I was referring more to the fact that you leapt out of a two-story building," Earl retorts evenly, and with only a hint of his earlier dryness. He lifts an eyebrow, as if to further prompt the Marquis' memory. And ah, yes, there we go: Cecil's malleable mouth—formerly pressed into a line of bewilderment— falls open with a hum of acknowledgement, followed by an airy laugh. He rolls his eyes at the other's concern. Earl, in turn, rolls his eyes at Cecil's nonchalance.

"Oh, please. As if something so trivial would hurt me," the Marquis scoffs, a sort of self-depreciating amusement quirking the edges of his smile. The hand that isn't full of runes wraps around to stroke the camber of his friend's forearm, wiry and strong beneath the fabric of his traveling cape. The affectionate touch brings them closer; Cecil's smile is wider than the distance between their bodies. "You needn't fret on my behalf, my possessive Elfin Knight."

That meager distance is filled by a squeak. If possible, the other's affectionate teasing adds a bit _more_ red to the flame-colored Scout, warm fires struck and left to smolder atop the rounded tips of his ears. "In public, I would almost prefer quips inspired by my name," he half-heartedly grouses, extracting himself from his companion's hold. As it always does in the wake of a fluster, the British veneer of his voice gains an unseemly chink; Earl clears away the accent of his Scottish ancestors with a cough, leveling the innocuous Cecil a _look_. Cecil merely grins. Boyish. Rather asking to be smacked. Cheeky bastard. "Never mind. If you are well, my Lord, we should return to the base. Regroup. Exchange new information."

"New information?"

With as much elegance as it is possible to exude when hopping flat-footed off of a tiered step, Cecil chases the sweep of Earl's vibrant cloak; the taller man had been swift to spin away and start picking through the crowd in the wake of previous humiliation, and that is as good a cue to follow as any. The Marquis' graceful gait soon has him side by side with the loping Scout, despite an easier pace and shorter legs. But while his feet work fast, his aching mind is a touch slower. He ponders over what clue he may have missed until they turn the corner onto the thoroughfare, and Earl gestures with a tip of his head at the nearest newspaper boy. The near-skeletal child is perched atop a wooden crate and shouting above the bustling throng, his verbal pitches oddly tangible in the biting chill of an approaching twilight.

"Three o' the missing found dead in Epping! Another girl gone!" barks the boy, his tiny face masked by the pluming clouds of his breath. His right arm flails, holding aloft a folded tabloid; the headline, black and bold, is legible even from a distance. _The Hansel and Gretel Murders_. Beneath the banner, details about the most recent string of mysterious disappearances dot the page like a bread crumbs. "The corpses' jaws were broken n' their teeth taken!"

Cecil blinks. His expression is artfully bland as he regards the curious mob.

"Ah." That explains a good deal already.

"We've seen no changelings," Earl further elucidates, discretely sidestepping a gathering of morbid citizens. Their shoving elbows miss the Scout completely, but their rambunctiousness does manage to overwhelm his commentary: his voice is rendered wholly inaudible as those around him make excited outbursts, toss their shillings, and rustle procured papers. The furor is as deafening as it is irritating, but it is ultimately no matter; Earl continues speaking, and Cecil hears him. They are away from the racket soon enough. "The stolen peoples were returned. Returned _dead_, perhaps, but returned rather than replaced. That is not the way of Fairyfolk."

The Marquis nods his agreement at this, somber. Too somber. "The Young Master _would_ know," he then intones, with an earnestness and gravity which makes it quite clear that Earl is being provoked. It is a familiar jest, and usually enough to comfort; today, Cecil's efforts are rewarded by no more than a sidelong stare. It is no use. Earl is worried—about the Marquis, about London—and no amount of banter will serve to reassure him. Well, it was worth a shot. The shorter man surrenders the cause for the present, prompting further details with a nod of genuine solemnity. The Scout complies.

"From what my boys have told me of the remains, all of the teeth have been rightly ripped from the victims' mouths, down to and including the roots. Even teeth that had yet to breach the gums were stolen, in certain cases. A tooth fairy would've been much more selective. More meticulous. Certainly more careful. Moreover, they'd have had no reason to violate their victim's tongue."

"So our perpetrator's pattern defies previous presumptions," Cecil murmurs to himself, pensive behind the crystal of his spectacles. He hums, a deep sound: it resonates through his chest and into the earth, until Earl swears he can feel the tenor of it oscillating up and through his legs. His ligaments vibrate like violin strings; his tendons sing. "It could be less than supernatural, then. A common criminal stealing teeth for the black market, for instance. They could be cutting out tongues on the slim chance that their victims make an escape, or refuse the comforts of death. Or it might be a young witch, hoping to plant curses. Or nab supper," he adds, droll, as they pass another seemingly faceless child selling dailies on the main street. 'Hansel and Gretel' indeed. Cecil tuts, unimpressed.

The Scout, meanwhile, suckles briefly at his own teeth, lips pursed and tongue set firmly against his cheek. He nods. Hesitates. "Those are both possible," he then hedges, flicking a cautious gaze in his companion's direction. The other's expression has since lost all of its juvenile mirth, giving him the air of a man far older than his appearance would suggest. Earl, by contrast, feels very young. Naïve, with skinned knees and frosting-caked fingers. But… "Mister Palmer. I know it is unlikely, and mean not to raise your hopes. However, when one takes into consideration this newest data… The increased chance of our target being of Catholic origins, coupled with its apparent focus… Well, there is the distinct possibility— That is, have you considered that it might _also_ be—?"

"I have, thank you."

Earl falls immediately silent. He doesn't need his badge in circumnavigating emotionally sensitive topics to know when a subject should be abandoned. The pursed thinness of Cecil's mouth, the distant gleam in his pallid eyes, and the shadows drawing themselves over his impassive features are indicative enough. The weight of implication, both spoken and silent, hangs heavily between the pair for half of a city block...

"Either way," the Marquis finally adds—in a lighter tone, distractedly clattering his runes in the cup of his palm, "we should get to the bottom of this matter post-haste. Things are, as they say, starting to look… Grimm."

There is a stumbling beside him. Immediate and ungainly. The Marquis feels his lips slide into an unctuous smirk of unsuppressed delight as his companion trips himself out of line, nearly falling flat on his face. There we go. Amusement. Not willingly given, of course, but few victories are_. _Certainly not the sweetest victories, anyway. Cecil cackles, triumphant, dodging the dagger-sharp stare being thrown at his back.

"Please tell me that you did not just… God in Heaven, Cecil. No. No, you stop running. Get back here, you deserve to be cuffed for that—!"

**X**

_Cecil Palmer, Marquis of Night Vale_. _The Community Radio._

Carlos scowls, the crevasses on his forehead deepening into canyons as he tilts the calling card backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Backwards: beneath the gas-lamp lights of his laboratory, the ink darkens from mercury-silver to twilight-amethyst. Forwards: the calligraphy's sheen fades from twilight-amethyst to mercury-silver. Between backwards and forwards and forwards and backwards, it acknowledges every conceivable shade of violet, as well as a few that _haven't _been conceived, so far as Carlos can tell.

He is testing for that now, actually. Apparently. The conceivability of those colors. The experiment is characterized by a series of variegated beakers, set over steady blue flames and gently smoking in the back of the room. Well, most are smoking. One is making a low, tinny buzz that resonates at around C flat. At least, he _assumes_ it's coming from the beaker. Oh, it doesn't matter. Or it does. He's not sure which anymore, as he's not entirely certain what he'd originally been testing. For that matter, he can't quite recall when he'd started doing tests at all. Just that, at one point or another, the Scientist had come back to himself and discovered that he was wearing goggles and gloves, and hunkered over a candle with a vial full of tattered paper in puce liquid.

It was around then that he figured elevens were in order. A late elevens. A very late elevens? He is not entirely certain of the time, in truth, having been focused on counting things other than hours.

Carlos chews his lips for a long minute, considering that which he _had_ been counting. Despite earlier activities, he still has a small stack of calling cards— all of which, _somehow_, belong to the Marquis. They'd been cropping up in random nooks and crannies for the past three days. When interrogated, his housekeeper, Maureen, had sworn up and down that she has no knowledge of how they might have appeared in his scone basket, or his box of tumblers, or in the pocket of his dinner jacket. At one point, he'd even found a card jammed beneath the cork of a vial of sulfuric acid, half-corroded and oddly green in patches. The mist that had risen from the contaminated bottle had smelt strangely of rosemary… The stench of it made his skull ache. In a fuzzy sort of way.

Perhaps that was when he'd set up… whatever it is that is going on in the back of the room, now. He just—he can't quite put his finger on—

"Concussion," Carlos reminds himself in a grumble, trying to quell mounting frustration. He fans his excessive number of calling cards, repeating the facts of the matter like a sort of mantra: the ache is from the concussion. The hazy sense that he's forgotten something crucial is from the concussion. His inability to focus on his _proper_ work is… probably from the concussion. Because those are the sorts of things that a concussion _does_ to a person, correct? _Correct_, he confirms mentally. If somewhat desperately. The Baron sighs, scooping another cube of sugar into his tea. Perhaps he should call upon the services of Doctor Thurgood once more. Or his family's physician. Or…

_Cecil Palmer, Marquis of Night Vale_. The name rises, unbidden, like bubbles to the surface of his drink. Despite having a title of his own, Carlos knows little of England's gentry. Social science, despite technically being a science, has never held much interest for him. Human interactions are fascinating, but the hierarchies prescribed to the peoples involved have always struck him as a bit arbitrary and elitist. Not to mention antiquated. His circle of peers consists—or, well, _consisted_, before finding himself academically ostracized—primarily of other like-minded men: those whose focus tended more towards books and experiments, rather than galas, picnics, and gossip. It is a truth that has left him markedly out of the loop when it comes to societal affairs, which is something he had never much minded before… But when one wakes with questions and a sixth calling card beneath a goose-feather pillow, one cannot help but wish he had _some_ clue as to what he is dealing with. As it is, Carlos had been forced to do proper _research_.

Or try to, anyway. But for all the venues he'd visited, he had not been able to uncover much. The Palmers were older money, well-to-do. Had left their home in the Colonies upon coming into their own nearly a century and a half ago, and chose to display their newfound wealth with the usual trappings. A manor, a townhouse, donations to the church… Fifty years ago, they opened a gentleman's club, too—presently named The Community Radio—in a convenient location near the Thames. But other than that, they proved a very private family. Next to no records existed of parties hosted or attended, marriages made, funerals arranged. Nothing public, anyway. And certainly nothing about a man named Cecil with eyes like Indian opals. Which, in his scientific opinion, Carlos feels is an unforgivable crime; there really should be some sort of article on that phenomenon. A doctor's study, an optician's note. Something. _Anything_.

Frankly, the fact that there is… well, suspiciously close to _nothing_ on the Marquis and his brood plagues the Baron with a lingering unease. There is only ever _nothing_, he knows, when a person has something to hide.

And so, feeling bemused and defeated, the Scientist sits in his study, idly swirling honey into his drink. His silver spoon spins clockwise; he fingers the edge of a card, and considers making it to do the same. Drowns that sudden urge with a mouthful of Earl Grey, scrubbing once more at his puckered forehead. _Ugh. _The tea is too sweet. It is not sweet enough. He's hungry. He's trembling. His china is chattering. But it's the concussion. All of it is the concussion. The anxiety, the edginess, his inability to _look _at his experiments, much less focus on them... And there is nothing to do for concussions except to relax and rest. Relax, and rest, and definitely _not_ seek out enigmas dressed in lilac who _know where he lives_, _for God's sake, _and had apparently figured out how to break in and scatter notes undetected. If Maureen is to be believed, anyway. And he does believe her.

So therein lies the rub, doesn't it? The Marquis is crazy. Beautiful, charismatic. Mad as a hatter. Potentially dangerous. As such, Carlos should be frightened, he knows. He should be furious. And really, he should be seeking out the constables, because _honestly_. _He'd found a card in his underthings._ But no. No, he is a _Scientist_, a man of reason. He is going to be reasonable. Rational. Mister Palmer had done nothing threatening—not purposefully, anyway— and to be blunt, Carlos' word is going to hold no water at the station. Baron or no, he is still… well. It's not worth his time. Besides, for as dependable as _his_ mind has been lately, he'll likely wind up looking like the loony one. So, logically speaking, the best course of action would be for Carlos to put all of this out of his mind and focus on his work. He has piles of files to go through. Postulations he'd been pursuing. Superstitions he'd only half-debunked. His newest thesis to take notes for, a paper about…

…what had he been studying, again?

"Oh, bugger it all…"

With another heave of his shoulders and an expulsion of air—one that sends the scattered cards twirling erratically over the varnish of his desk— Carlos suckles a dab of honey from his littlest finger and surrenders to his own restlessness. After all, he _is_ a Scientist… and every ounce of data indicates that he will be accomplishing very, very little today. Just as he'd accomplished yesterday, and the day before. In which case, there is no point in loitering at home and risking another half-cataleptic episode with potentially dangerous chemicals. Carlos cannot, _will _not, seek out enigmas dressed in lilac, but enigmas come in all sorts of colors.

Undoubtedly he can find some other shade to capture his attention.

**X**

Green. Green is lovely.

Hunkered deep in the warmth of his wool cloak, Carlos shivers and shudders and finally relaxes, his sour mood breaking like thawed ice over the Thames. The greengrocer's had been the perfect place to wander, he muses. The luster of imported fruits against the gray of the cityscape adds spots of brilliance to the drab of a late English winter; motley and multicolored, the fruits' dappled skin shines with a gemstone's gloss. Their colors are as bright as the first peeking blossoms in a springtide garden, and the overall effect is such that the Baron finds it difficult to stay grumpy. The fruits' sweetness, though yet untried, somehow manages to leave phantom tingles on his tongue… Reminiscent of the faux peppermint he can taste on each chilly breath. Not an hour past teatime, and he's already thinking of making a purchase. Something juicy, saccharine. Oh, but he did just eat…

Though close to the crates and carts on display, the Scientist makes certain to stand somewhat apart, careful to keep out of the way of the more serious shoppers and bargain hunters. Petticoats rustle, women chatter. Feet pick over slushy puddles as hands pick through vegetables; burlier gentlemen from some foreign land grunt native greetings to one another over fresh slabs of bleeding meat; children shriek and wail with pleasure as they rush past, bee-lining for the red door of the candy store on the opposite side of the street. One stumbles in the midst of his scampering, coming so close to Carlos that he can feel a bony shoulder graze against the small of his back. He starts, spinning in surprise; from this new angle, the Baron watches a handful of adults— both with and without little ones— gain interest in this new shop, as well: hungrily eyeing the sugary orange peels and mottled lollies on display.

Thinking on it, Carlos can't really blame them. The candies are exotic—tempting— and stimulate the palate in ways that produce does not. _Like sin_, he half-thinks, sardonic, remembering the words of a priest he'd exchanged recent pleasantries with. Unwholesome indulgences wrapped luxuriously in decorative paper and ribbons. Hardened globs of Satan spit, he called them. Spit and… other excrements. Depending on color and texture.

Which, if true, would actually be quite fascinating. Monumental for his current research. But it's not, of course it's not—it's just paranoia and propaganda—, and Carlos has never been a religious man, anyway. Besides, he fails to see the harm. Not in the occasional sweetie. If anything, this shop and those like it should be celebrated for the innovative advancements that they are. That they _exemplify_. Confectionary science as a subject, the technology necessary to mold each specimen, the fact that mankind has had enough leisure time to _perfect_ the craft… It speaks volumes about the quality of life enjoyed here, and the overall superiority of the British Empire, God save it. Carlos can't bring himself to feel anything other than a deep admiration.

Well. Deep admiration and gnawing curiosity. The sort which borders the lines between demand and desire. The longer he stares at the store widow, lost in honeyed thoughts, the more enticing its stock becomes; Carlos cannot remember the last time he'd bought himself a sweet, and there are so many to choose from, here. Truffles in boxes and toffees in wax and licorice in braided strips… Spools of pearly candy floss that share counter space with caramel-coated apples on sturdy wooden pegs. Bricked fudge has been stacked high beside pillow-piles of marshmallows, and gigantic jars of jelly babies and winegums create delectable kaleidoscopes behind snowy panes of frosted glass. The world beyond the storefront seems to him a cloying dream: mahogany panels and rosy light fixtures create an inviting environment for anyone looking to escape the bitter winds. The promise of sweet fruit has faded on his tongue; the faux peppermint of the air is suddenly less like the herb and more like hard candy. His body shifts. The near-continuous tinkle of the bell on that red door is practically hypnotic. His feet—what is that by his feet?— shuffle, if slightly, in time to that bell; the patented leather of his heel bumps against a child's lost jawbreaker, previously dropped and forgotten on the walkway. The bell peals. A signal. A start. The crafted globe, lemon-yellow and vivid as a sun, rolls within the rutted orbit of the grating… Bumps into a nearby mate, blue as the moon, with another silvery chime. This second candy tumbles off, towards an emerald third, enchantingly similar to dominoes or interplanetary collisions and Carlos should really study them, follow them, just to see how long—

"A right shame, innit, Sir?"

The Scientist almost leaps out of his skin.

"Mister Peters!" he gasps, spinning quickly enough to give himself whiplash. And indeed, there is Mister Peters—John Peters, a local farmer. An old friend. A decade or three past middle-age and wearing clothes equally past their prime, John is a shorter gentleman— grizzled and gray— but with a warmth in his dark gaze that customers consistently call charming. Right now, there are crows' feet set beside those eyes, and a twisted frown between the bristly remains of whiskers on his cheeks.

"A right shame," he repeats, shaking his head and fingering his hat. He sighs, casting a pitying stare at the same shop. "I'm acquainted with th' owner of that establishment. A wee boy-o, barely a man, but smart as a whip. I hate t' see a fellow businessman suffering."

"'Suffering'?" There is a molasses-thick incredulity in Carlos' voice as he glances between the red door and the shabby stands, the mafficking throng and the thinning crowds. A gaggle of grinning girls giggle past, apples in their cheeks and on sticks in their hands. While the Scientist would never be so rude as to refute a man on something as trivial as this, he rather wonders if his friend had mixed up his facts. "I am afraid I shall have to take your word on that, Sir. I've heard nothing of bad business."

"No?" John rejoins, in a voice as deep and dark as chocolate. It is his turn to look doubtful now, head cocking as he turns more fully to face the Baron. He's arched a bushy eyebrow, his elastic lips stretched to the point of snapping; it gives the impression of severest scrutiny, and Carlos finds himself feeling a bit judged. "Is that not why you're here? That's your hobby, innit, my Lord? It seems you're always running about, lookin' into skilamalink matters. I'd've thought for sure you were here investigatin' the Hansel and Gretel murders."

"I beg your pardon?" Carlos blinks. He is bewildered and— he is starting to think, anyway— perhaps deserving of earlier disparage. "The what-and-what now?"

"The Hansel and Gretel murders!" John repeats—hisses, really, though with more fervor than before. His disbelief has been replaced by downright surprise. Grabbing Carlos' elbow, he pulls him (unnecessarily) further to the left, closer to the gaping maw of an alleyway before continuing the conversation. "If your Lordship will pardon my saying so, good God, man. Where've you _been_ these past few days?"

A fair question. He wishes he had an answer for it. In lieu of that, Carlos opens his mouth, and half-considers confessing the truth: that he'd been ambushed by a man of higher station— nearly killed by said lunatic after he'd leapt from the second story of a building on Oxford. Knocked down, and out, and subsequently unable to focus his mind. Not on anything of import, anyway. The only thing now able to ground the Scientist's thoughts seem to be further musings on that inscrutable Marquis… Rather ironically, since the aforementioned Marquis _literally_ grounding him is what had gotten the Baron into this predicament in the first place.

In the end, though, he doesn't say anything. John already appears to be suspecting madness; no need to confirm that diagnosis. Instead, Carlos shrugs helplessly. That communicates enough. Or, at least, serves well enough as a prompt: John shudders, grandfatherly features taking a grave turn as he continues.

"There's something foul running amok," the older man mutters, with a shake of his head that has nothing to do with denial. "It's been the front page of every paper. People've been kidnapped left and right, and the best that Scotland Yard an' its incompetent Sheriff can figure, the last place each person had been seen before disappearing had been th' sweets shops. Some have even just… up-n-vanished, apparently, leavin' nothing but a pile of wrappers or candied peels behind. It's terrible."

"Have any of the missing been found?" Carlos demands, pulled closer by the gravity of the tale. They're an inch from nose-to-nose, now; the mist of their whispers shielding them from the rest of London's downtown. Beyond that veil, streetlights flicker and pop into eerie existence. John looks uncomfortable.

"A few bodies've cropped up," he hedges, with one of those meaningful, askance glances that undercuts the difference between being 'missing' and being 'bodies.' "Tongues cut or pulled out. Teeth gone. Bellies full o' toffees. They've been showing up at the edge of Epping forest. People are cryin' witchcraft."

"When did it start?"

"Uh… Oh, Monday last, I think," the farmer nods, squinting into the distance as if that will help him see the past. Maybe it does; when he nods again, it is with far more certainty. "Yes, Monday last—I remember, because it all began the day after I got my picture taken. For an article. That's why I was checkin' the paper. There was supposed to be an article about London's best greengrocers. It must've been delayed, though, what with all of the… well." He clears his throat, trying not to look too disappointed. There's a time and a place, and to mourn a lack of attention due to something so dreadfully gristly would be the ultimate pettiness. Still, Carlos can sense his hurt pride; he offers a sympathetic smile in compensation.

"I'm sure they'll run that article just as soon as the culprit is topped," he reassures, giving his friend's shoulder a gentle, but bolstering clap. "Not that you need the publicity. It's already common knowledge that the best food comes from your farms."

John snorts. The sound of it—wet with phlegm— rattles loosely in his chest before vibrating down Carlos' arm. "Ha. Unless you preferred candied oranges to real ones," he drawls, not bothering to hide the gripe in his tone. But despite the embittering sarcasm, his wizened expression is one of gratitude. He pats the Scientist's arm in return, fingers rough and grimy with dirt, before hobbling a step backwards. It's enough to break the spell of mystery. The air clears; they rejoin the city in twilight. "No matter, no matter. Well, then, Sir. Is there anythin' I can be helpin' you with today, besides the macabre?"

The older man looks hopeful, if mildly expectant. Carlos hasn't the heart to disappoint him, whatever his cravings might happen to be. Besides, taking into account all that he's just heard, visiting the candy shop would hardly be his wisest idea. He realizes as much. Consciously, anyway. But the concussion must still be warping his faculties, because it doesn't make him want to go any less.

Still. John is a friend. He focuses on that.

"Oh, um. Have you any plums?" the Baron asks, trying not to sound as sheepish as he feels. He assumes he must succeed by the way that John's face lights up; Carlos' own grin becomes more genuine as the farmer enthusiastically rubs his soil-stained hands, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. Despite his years, he can be quite the sprightly thing when given the proper motivation.

"Sir, the plums I have. You just wait right here. The ripest lot are in my cart, just over in that alley. I shan't be a mo'."

"Right, then," Carlos calls—unnecessarily, awkwardly— as he watches John toddle off towards the indicated side street. Judging solely by his stride, it will take a trifle longer than the promised moment, but not much. It hardly matters, either way; the Scientist is in no rush, and is perfectly content to savor the sudden lull, the butterscotch warmth of a good deed done. It is just as satisfying, the Scientist thinks, as an actual caramel would have been. He grins, glad to know that he'd brought his friend this small pleasure.

"My, my. What big teeth you have."

The flash of those teeth vanish in an instant, along with the rest of Carlos' smile. He spins—beset now by whiplash _and _déjà vu— to find that he is no longer alone. Again. Where John had so recently stood, there is now a red-cloaked stranger: tall, lean, and freckled, with a shock of ginger hair slovenly brushed over the right half of his face. The slant of his head suggests aloofness, but the Baron can sense a biting acumen from the cut of his stare. His limbs are mere suggestions, completely invisible beneath the sweep of his heavy cape. His eyes are shadowed. Auburn, bordering on scarlet. Carlos is struck by an immediate wariness—feet braced, mind on edge—due both to the shrewdness that the man exudes in rose-thorn waves, and the gut-knotting knowledge that he could have _anything _under that mantle. Any weapon in his hands. It's worrisome, to say the least.

Though, as it happens, what lurks behind the cloak proves itself a bigger concern.

"Sir Scientist! How completely serendipitous and not at all foreseen!"

With all the self-control and subtly of an over-wound jack-in-the-box, Mister Palmer—the lilac enigma, though today dressed in mauve— springs abruptly into view, odd eyes shining and smile so impossibly broad it looks just short of painful. His entrance has Carlos jumping in kind. He is starting to worry more for his nerves than his abused head. "Just marvelous! Absolutely corking! Look at you! Still with your perfect hair and impeccable style and— oh, and your gorgeous teeth, that's excellent, excellent. I was worried, you see. About your teeth. About you!"

The Baron, with the desperation of a man cornered, darts a glance between the Marquis and his stoic companion. The redhead is looking towards the sky, mouth moving as if muttering some inaudible prayer for strength. His entreaty ends with an elbow jammed nippily backwards, catching the shorter gentleman in the middle; Mister Palmer squeaks, startled, but then seems to remember the importance of breathing.

Carlos chances a wavering smile when the other begins to calm. "H-hello, my Lord."

It is a mistake. A grave one. The sound the young man makes has the other two cringing and, quite possibly, nearby glass shattering. He wonders if he'd have heard a telltale tinkle, could he still hear.

"Oh, no, please, that will never do!" the Marquis cries, torn between crawling over and around the ginger's broad shoulder. For his part, said ginger tolerates the abuse like any mother might: with great abundance of affection and an abiding sort of patience, even whilst exasperated beyond all possible measure. "Cecil, just Cecil, I don't amount to a tosser, really. Worthy of no respect whatsoever! Not like you, a _Scientist_. A Scientist! Speaking of, you know, I have been thinking. I know so little about science—never been my area of expertise, there's a bit of a clash— but, well, the times are changing, and what smatterings I've heard on the subject have been absolutely _fascinating_… In any case, my associates and I, we would, I believe, greatly benefit from any morsels of wisdom you might be willing to feed our yearning minds, and—"

"Mister Palmer." The cloaked man throws a long glance backwards, his expression as flat and dry as desert earth. Carlos pities his eardrums and their proximity to the Marquis'… noises. "Was this night's holy sermon not the most stirring yet? Why, I cannot but hope that someday, I too might speak the words of Proverbs 29:20 with the same clout and piousness as the Father."

The change in Cecil is instantaneous: idyllically gay one moment, stone-faced the next. In a display of utter mortification, the Marquis droops like a flower, wilted and wan. Well, wilted at least; he is too ashen by nature to lose any more color. Instead, he gains it, buds unfurling and blossoms bursting upon his cheeks in petal-patches. His features blend, chameleon-like, with the burgundy cloth of his companion's cape; he chokes, horrified. The ring on his finger winks as his hands clutch timidly at ruby fabric. And rather than the Good Book which had previously been referenced, Carlos finds himself thinking of penny-dreadfuls— of the parrots that perch on the shoulders of pirates in tales of sea-bound adventure. Cecil can certainly be as shrill as such a bird, in any case. Though, in his defense, his conversational abilities are a touch more sophisticated; he _can_ do more than whistle and click and make demands for crackers.

"Your piety is of great service as it is, and a gentle reminder to us all," the Marquis is saying now, with the pained expression of a man who would rather pretend that the quantifiable past was not a thing that had ever happened. Catholic of him indeed. "I, too, shall endeavor to hold that homily close to my heart. Or any other errant body part, as is deemed necessary. But while we are on the subject of such waywardness, I will confess to your confidence that I fear I have completely lost my head. I feel I must have. And wherever it went, it took my manners along as escort; I most humbly beg everyone's pardons, for I have only now realized that you two have yet to be formerly introduced! That will not stand!"

His voice cants hideously high once more, a sudden upswing that ends in a squawk; this time, a simple stare and quoted passage are not enough to make clear mounting displeasures. The redhead gives the whole of his shoulder a brusque shake, dislodging another string of redundant sounds. He also dislodges the Marquis himself, who trips backwards—then forwards— before coming to a graceful halt between the two men. Whatever the jostle had knocked loose (or back into place) seems to have done the trick, though: Cecil is, abruptly, holding himself with all of the import and elegance one would expect from a man of his stature.

"Lovely Carlos," the Marquis then purrs, each susurrating syllable unspooling, ribboning, from the loom of his lips in ethereal bolts of enunciated velvet. The warmth of the woven words rub against the Baron's ears, looping amorously around his limbs… And Carlos is disconcerted to realize that _he_ is now the one pinking, and not as much from indignation as would be preferred. "Before you stands the Earl of Harlan, my oldest friend, best-loved and most loyal. Earl, dear, you remember Carlos, of course."

"Of course," Earl agrees, in a drone that insinuates far more than Carlos is privy to know. Though common sense (and a quick comparison of bodily dimensions) seems inclined to suggest that it wasn't Cecil who carried him back to his townhouse the other day, meaning that—

The Baron is yanked from a half-formed hypothesis by calloused fingers ensnaring his own. He thinks immediately of hunter's traps. He doesn't remember extending his hand. It's possible that he hadn't. But if this Earl of Harlan has been an acquaintance of the Marquis' for as long as has been claimed, than he is undoubtedly well-versed in dealing with nutcases; he likely just made a grab when it'd become clear that Carlos had lost himself in his own musings. Some modicum of decorum, some attempt at civility, etc. The Scientist's flush darkens at his own rudeness. He clears his throat. Tries to keep his palm from sweating. Fails spectacularly. Presses on. "A pleasure, my Lord Harlan, surely."

"Earl will do," the redhead retorts, tactlessly blunt, while giving their twined hands a single, brisk shake. Literally, just that: then he lets go as if scorched. It seems a bit discourteous, all in all; standoffish at least, ill-mannered at worst. Particularly the request to refer to him by title, when Cecil had been so forward about—

"Earl is also his name," the Marquis chirps, seemingly without reason. He beams, sunshine and posies. Earl's steady stare slides from Cecil to Carlos, and Carlos gets the distinct impression that Cecil saying this has given _something _away. Some presumption or rudeness that he'd been meant to keep locked in his head. The anxiety of it all has the Baron's bowels liquidizing. Earl blinks. Slowly. Carlos feels he is being appraised again, and is somehow failing.

Cecil, oblivious— and apparently out of whatever meager restraint he'd been in possession of— returns to prattling. "I have enjoyed the very high honor of working alongside Earl and his esteemed organization, the Eternal Scouts, for many years now. He is the absolute _best_ in the business, don't let him tell you otherwise—" The Baron's gaze flicks up and over, briefly meeting that of the man in question; he physically swallows back the urge to comment on how certain he is that Earl would _never_ dispute this claim, "—and I am quite confident that you would find us both perfectly agreeable compatriots. It seems such a waste that we are not working together now, as our fields align so neatly. Oh, my Good Man, I have been simply _itching _to talk to you about it, just _dying_, but you've yet to call upon me, despite my most fervent hopes and occasional reminders."

A touch of disappointment pollutes his airy tone, its lightness dyed some shade darker by a single, rippling droplet of black ink. A brow furrows; Carlos feels guilt settle upon him like some summoned beast. But wait, no— No, he has no reason to feel that way! Not when… Wait. Wait just one moment. _Reminders? _

"I— what?" Carlos flounders, increasingly incensed, as his fingers flex and bend in some fruitless effort to grasp the situation. Cecil watches him struggle innocently. Earl, unchanging, (and perhaps unblinking) stares at the Baron as if he is some kind of threat. "You _are_ the one who's been…? But how have—? One of those cards was in my— and what do you mean, 'our fields'? What could you possibly know of my work?!"

"Oh, a good deal, I should think," Cecil returns dreamily, either completely unaware of or wholly unperturbed by the Scientist's palpable anger. It's impossible to tell which. And it hardly matters, in the end. "You have made quite the name for yourself down at the Community Radio! Did you not know of your own fame? Why, some of the members are _still _discussing your most recent paper. The one about electricity, and its debatable capacity for reanimation. I am afraid it mostly went over my head, but… You really _should _come visit, sometime. It would be such a treat! F-for my patrons, I mean."

He flutters his eyelashes winningly. Carlos can think of no way to respond to that. Which, as it happens, is just as well, because any retort he might have made would've been swallowed an instant later by a raw, unholy _shrieking_.

"Dear God—?!"

All three men stiffen, heads snapping towards the sound. The alley. A murder of crows scream litanies in reply, black feathers scattering as the flock rises into the oncoming gloom. Cecil and Earl are off before the final note of the human howl has faded from the wind. But the instant the voice registers, Carlos is not two footsteps behind.

_John._

"What the hell was that—?!"

Clattering heels skid to the precipice of a hellish silence as the three men round the narrow corner, Carlos' head-heart-lungs aching within the fragile cage of his body. Terror locks his knees, distends his pupils. A sharp intake of breath catches in his throat and it, too, tastes of peppermint. Peppermint candy. The air tastes of putrid, half-digested candy. The stench of it wafts, rot-sweet and nauseating, from beneath a blanket of shadows… But Carlos can see, at the edge of the darkness cast by a grime-slimed wall, an oozing line of scarlet. Vibrant. Slow. Like the caramelized sugar spooned over apples, it leaks with the languid thickness of liquidized amber into the grating and gutters.

Something bumps against the Baron's feet. He nearly _yowls_, but—

"S-saints preserve us, Lord have mercy…"

_John_. It's John. John, on his back and in the midst of a breakdown, violently cowering as he tries and fails to crawl up to the mouth of the lane— to scramble away from the gorge of this nightmare — but his limbs keep crumpling beneath him like those of a baby foal. He's sobbing, hyperventilating. His shirtsleeves are caked in what looks like (but can't be) molasses. "Oh. Oh—! T-thought I saw… in the corner! Went to—t-to see, and then…! But it was…! Poor child, poor child…!" he wheezes, teeth chattering together like chimes in a gale.

And then a righteous wind begins to blow.

"Earl."

The name—though directed at no one but the man in red— is enough to quiet all else. John's gasps, Carlos' thoughts. Even the streetlights fizzle and snap with less static as Cecil steps softly forward, the flint of his features igniting sparks in his eyes. Those sparks leap, augmenting existing flames: beside him, Earl is nodding, sharing in some secret understanding. He fans the mysterious pyre with a billow of woolen ruby, turning. Crouching. His palms are placed meaningfully upon John, and he says something that Carlos cannot hear. Doesn't try to hear. Can't be bothered to hear, really, because the Marquis— he is quickly realizing— is a subject who refuses to be ignored.

Without caution or concern, Cecil enters the dim of the alley. The final rays of a brumous sunset catch on his spectacles in starry bursts, lingering in twinkles near the corners of his eyes. His dark cape flutters; patent boots click against the cobbles like a macabre metronome. Fallen plums, bruised and partly crushed, litter his path, their veined and quivering innards pushing through the ruptures in their skin. Carlos thinks morbidly of organs. Broken skulls. He might not be wrong to do so. Near the center of the juicy mess, a cloth which had once been draped dotingly over an upturned bushel has been claimed by the ground. The soft of it is caked in mud, hiding suspicious bulges. The Marquis kneels beside a line of moldering barrels, pinching one dirtied corner between his gloved fingers.

"_In manibus portabunt te ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum_," he breathes, in that same deeply resonant voice, before flipping back the blanket.

"Oh—!"

Carlos is immediately grateful that he hadn't eaten anything after elevens. The acerbic sting of rising bile in his esophagus is quite enough to deal with. "Oh," he moans again around the burn. A hand lifts to hide his mouth, but he cannot bring himself to do anything about his eyes. "_Oh_…"

A girl. One of the girls—one of the giggling girls, vaguely noticed as she skipped her way home. A child with bushy raven ringlets and a periwinkle ribbon, no doubt chosen by her mother to match the color of her peacoat. The buttons gleam, reflective and silvery; they haven't yet lost the gloss of the shop. She must have been proud of it. Her friends, perhaps, envious… And maybe that is why they left her behind, why they went on without her, and here she is, left alone to play with roaches and earthworms: legs askew and arms spread as one of her glassy eyes pierce the sky above, mutely asking why. Round, brown, wondering. Betrayed.

The other orb can see nothing, demand nothing— due less in part to death, and more to the wooden stake rammed clean through the center of its socket. No, not a stake… It is the peg from her earlier treat, gummy with globs of caramel. The stringy residue sticks in cobweb fibers and gossamer filaments to the waning apples of her cheeks, adding crystals to her flesh and trapping flies upon her chin. But those sallow blotches are not the only withered fruits to have so altered her features.

With a queasy dread, the Scientist follows the trail of the girl's seeping fluids. A viscid, buttery liquid is still leaching, spurting glutinous pearls from the torn film of her eye. The oil of those tears accumulates in the crevices of her open orifices: moistens the coagulated blood that has caramelized in crusted layers within her ear, her nostrils, the elastic corners of her mouth. Her distended, broken mouth. And there's the third apple— the glazed one— stuffed unceremoniously into the abyss of her gullet, as if she were a Christmas pig.

"Eve would sympathize," Cecil comments with a cluck of his tongue. He is a silhouette, now, from Carlos' perspective: the sort that one might see painted onto the stained glass of a cathedral's rose window, hands folded and gaze downcast. The curl of his lashes catch in the haloing streetlight; the feathery tips smolder, outlined by silver. But despite his angelic appearance and the sober press of his palms, he is offering no prayers. Rather, he seems to be performing some perverted ritual of his own. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls apart his slender hands: wider and wider, wider and wider, until only the tips his thumb, index, and ring fingers still touch. The others flair around the circular maw he's created, like delicate stalactites decorating the entrance of a cave. The gem on his smallest finger shimmers as Cecil peers through the hole that he has created. A hum. He tastes the air, shifts; the hollow shifts in kind. Index, thumb, and pinkies share a gentle kiss as the world around them crumbles, ring fingers collapsing and the middles forming a cross. He gazes deeply into this gap, as well, scrutinizing the corpse at some angle that the Scientist can neither fathom nor appreciate.

"…blue," he says after a moment. Decided, certain. And yes, one thing is _very_ certain: this man is insane. Completely off his rocker, and really, he's practically defiling the dead, on top of it. _Mocking_ the pitiable fate of this child, sassing about like this. What has _blue_ to do with anything? Does he assume his company blind? It's quite apparent the color of her bow, her jacket. Her body, as she loses her warmth. There is no time for this Marquis' idiocy—they need a constable, this girl's parents. A hospital. Anything, _anyone _else.

The Baron moves to say this—to do something _about _this— when Cecil, with unexpected speed, grasps the corking fruit by the base of its waxy stem and _yanks_. The answering _squelch _is enough to curdle skin, addle minds; Carlos' thoughts become as warped as current visions of fresh caramel, distended and unable to support their own weight. His stomach turns; sugary strands stretch. Possessive, the tacky tendrils cling to both the spoiled sweet and lifeless child, binding her face like some bizarre toffee muzzle. Its tenacity is a source of mild exasperation, it seems. The Marquis gives another brisk tug, arm bent awkwardly behind him. Viscous strings snap into lopsided, sagging pockets, shining with spittle and other dark solutions.

"Lord in Heaven…" Carlos chokes, hardly recognizing the words as his own. Somewhere near his shins, John squeals, half-mad himself.

"This is the devil's work—!"

"Oh, but that seems a touch unlikely, don't you think?"

The apple has been extracted. Broken bands of candy coating have folded back upon themselves, framing the rusty ring of the child's mouth. The rip of it looks like an injury in itself. A mutation, almost. The congealed syrup has formed flaps like peeled flesh, like shriveled petals of a jungle blossom. Carlos recalls, unbidden, his conservatory's Venus fly traps and illustrations he's seen of corpse flowers— of things that eat and are eaten. She could be either. Inanimate and putrefying, she still manages to look hungry. Empty. Her jaw, since unhinged, remains unnaturally stretched: black as the void of midnight. The stump of her tongue clogs the back of her throat; her gums are a tattered mess of gristly pink and burgundy chunks.

Cecil is standing, willowy and smooth. Indifferent. He tosses the bloody fruit into the shadows of the backstreet, clapping an invisible mess from his palms. Beneath the steady of his unwavering gaze, the cadaver carries on silently shrieking. He continues, "It may be the work of _a _devil, certainly. But _the _devil? Doubtful. Surely one such as he could find better uses of his time."

"And, one would hope, he might employ more finesse than is displayed here," Earl adds with… well, with what Carlos can only _assume _is meant to be humor. The Marquis is chuckling anyway, shooting a sly half-smile towards his kneeling companion. Like the girl's buttons, his teeth flash in the glow of the rising moon.

"Well, that goes without saying, my dear."

This… This is... Carlos is beginning to wonder if this is all some grand illusion. Some joke or dream. Preferably the latter, that he might wake in his bed and simply have one more thing to pin on his concussion. Because the alternative to that—to recognize this tasteless display of nonchalance and desecration as some contortion of reality— is almost too much to bear, at present. A girl is _dead. _Mutilated. One of his oldest friends is going into shock. And all the while, two members of the gentry's upper echelons are making light of the situation with jokes about the _devil_. Religiously inclined or not, the Baron knows certain lines are not to be crossed. Yet, what this pair is saying, doing… _Claiming._ This—all of this…

"Right. Blue, was it?"

At some point between the start of Carlos' mental thread and its total unraveling, Earl had risen to his feet, giving John a bolstering pat. Cecil, meanwhile, had again used the mantel to cover the young corpse—gingerly, meticulously, as if wrapping a precious gift—before trotting back to his keeper's side. And John, shivering something terrible, had been bound in a spare sheet from the back of his cart, as if that might keep the chill of terror at bay. It doesn't. But there is no helping that.

"Blue," the Marquis quietly confirms, with a graveled gravitas that would suggest this color is of the utmost importance. Earl seems to feel this is the case, anyway; he nods—once at Cecil, and once towards the sky. Why he does this Carlos cannot be sure (though he can hardly be sure of anything, anymore), but for a fleeting instant, he thinks he sees some flitting shade… Like a bird, circling above. It's gone an instant later. "There are traces. No more than that. Little else can be done, at present."

"You're quite sure?" The one in red darts a sidelong glance towards the farmer. He looks concerned.

"It is gone. For the time being, at least."

"Indeed. Well, then," Earl decrees, turning his full attention back towards the Marquis. The latter looks a touch alarmed, privy to some otherwise-unseen glint in that piercing auburn stare, "if that is so, we should return to the base. You need to rest."

In the deepening darkness of the early March night, his cloak undulates like deep waters— a drowning sort of black. It quenches the fire of before, the flame of his hair, the furnace of his stare; his presence is reduced to little more than the tide that tries to pull Cecil away. The Marquis, for his part, splutters beneath the waves of it, attempting vainly to turn against the current. Carlos can just make out the flail of his limbs beneath the shadow of the taller man.

"Earl, whatever are you doing?" Cecil gasps, scandalized, twisting this way and that as he is pushed towards the main road. It is a useless endeavor; Earl handles him with an ease bordering on omnipotence. The Baron is an only child, but he imagines that this must be what having an older brother looks like. He is, rather suddenly, thankful for his lack of siblings. "Earl! Why, I cannot but protest! You are embarrassing me most heinously— this is the very _height_ of offence! I am not some child you can march off to bed!"

"I see no reason why not. You act a child in all other aspects."

"But _science_, little Elf!" Cecil whines. There is the telling scrape of dragged feet. "The esteemed Baron Carlos is here! Think of all the questions we might ask him— uninterrupted, now that we have finished with the tedious distraction of work! Think of all the queries he may pose in turn, that we alone could answer! Ours is but a budding friendship… We have yet to see it blossom!"

"And it shall all come up roses in good time, I am _sure_," the redhead drawls, his hands still firmly braced atop his companion's bony shoulders. Carlos can no longer see what expression Earl wears—wouldn't have been able to, even should he turn around—but he can hear the lolling echo of rolling eyes in the cadence of the curt rejoinder. The Scientist recognizes that he is adamantly abhorred, though he has no idea what might have culled such feelings. Objectively, he shouldn't care. Objectively, _he_ should be the one affecting an aura of revulsion, of loathing and distrust, because _a little girl had just been murdered_ and these bastards seem to have already forgotten. Their flippancy makes his stomach twist, his skin crawl. And yet, even in light of this, Carlos finds that he _does_ care. He cares very, very much. Due less in part to any cloistered desire for an alliance, however, and more with the gnawing suspicion that things—that _people_— this man dislikes tend to meet fates even more gruesome than this child's.

The Baron shrinks a bit, despite the challenging glower he wears, when he feels a ruddy stare flick back upon his person. Shrewd. Contemptuous. It strikes him, bizarrely, as nearly identical to and yet drastically different from the gazes of his academic peers. The scorn is the same, this much is easily observable—but where the other Scientists loathe Carlos for being so Unmistakably Wrong, this so-called Scout's irritation seems to stem from… Well, from what Carlos somehow suspects is a completely opposite source. "The _honorable_ Baron has been told where he might go, should he wish to further make your acquaintance, my Lord. This is hardly the time or place to address any of his questions."

"But I too have—!"

"As for yours, they can no doubt be answered by a trip to the library."

Night is descending. The indigo swath of it settles, heavy and wet, still seeping the dark dyes of space. The liquescent ether of dusk gathers beneath Carlos' fixed feet, collecting in puddles and pools. It floods the ground, it gums the grates. Shallow at first, murky as a mire, but steadily rising to submerge the town: first the corners, then the doors, then their jambs and roofs. Like the Thames after a heavy rain, twilight swamps the city in shades of violet, awnings drenched and carriages soaked and clothing clotted in the wake of leached fluids. Carlos feels like he might be sinking. It's difficult to stay sensible. He needs to—

He needs—

"Wait."

The command—weedy and strangled though it might have been—is enough to bring the Earl and the Marquis to an abrupt stop. Their feet, their bickering; they are, in that instant, so still that Carlos half-wonders if they have already become one with the night. Specters, appearing and vanishing at will. But no— no, if he squints, the Scientist can just make out the burgundy hem of a cloak, tickling the nebulous halo of light crowning the nearest lantern. The fabric wavers like an opera curtain. Something is beginning. The man beneath it is motionless, but expectant—poised for act one. In his clutch, another waits, too.

"I do have— Can you answer just one question for me?" Carlos asks. Begs, in truth, should he choose to acknowledge the crack of desperation that nearly splits his voice in two. He tries not to, though. He tries not to acknowledge a number of things about the present moment: the muted keens from John, the blooming stench of the cadaver, his palpitating heart… "It's not about— It isn't… Just. Please, my Lords. One question."

The pair does not respond. But then, neither do they continue on their way. The Baron supposes it is encouragement enough, and with a staccato wheeze, hears himself—irrationally, _foolishly_—demand:

"What's one and one?"

A snort. The scarlet cloak susurrates with amusement. Through the gloom, something else rumbles; plates part the earth, thunder the sky, and the toll of this rich chuckle rends the air itself into ribbons: rippling sheaves of sound that spiral as broad streamers around and around the cage of Carlos' chest. They weave through bony slats. They bind with sinews and muscles. They become like the wires of marionettes, and he can _feel_ their hold upon him, feel them as acutely and absently as if they've always been. Feel them, and cannot move. Cannot _blink_. Cannot look away when _something_ meets his gaze through the opaque drape of darkness, mirror-smooth and reflective. The twin pricks of it, nova-bright and angled and pallid, gleam with the same flameless fire as burnished gemstones.

"Why, it's elevens, isn't it?" he then hears Cecil return. Cheerfully. Casually. "Goodness me. Your concussion must be worse than we feared. Do take care of yourself, Sir Scientist."

For a moment, Carlos fears that he's choked. That the bubble of his gasp had caught in his throat, gained substance, killed him. But then, just as suddenly, he realizes he's simply stopped breathing. He could again, if he wanted. He does want. He doesn't. Because— because. Because elevens. Elevens? _Eleven_. It's a stupid, skewed answer and he needs to breathe, yes, but he also needs to laugh, to _cackle_, because he should not have expected anything else. The ludicrousness of it all froths like a poison, foamy and acidic in his gullet; he clenches his teeth against it, clenches his fist to steady himself.

_Crunch._

And for once, the Baron isn't surprised by the cut of heavy paper in his palm. It's a calling card, he knows. A calling card, inadvertently crushed, that definitely had not been there moments prior. _Cecil Palmer,_ its bent face will read, in stylish swirls of impossible ink. _Marquis of Night Vale._

"Good night, dear Carlos. Good night."

The Community Radio, was it…?

**XXX**

_Psalmus David Dominus reget me _(etc): An interrupted beginning to Psalm 23.

_In manibus portabunt te ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum_: "They will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone." Psalm 91:12.

_Proverbs 29:20_: Do you see a man who is hasty in his words? There is more hope for a fool than for him. (In other words, STFU Cecil.)


	2. II

**Disclaimer: **I gots nothing.

**Author's Note: **LET'S GET SOME DANA ALL UP IN THIS BITCH.

**Warnings: **See chapter one, especially the part about Dangersocks cleaning up all of my suck, and any suck that she missed being my own fault. Contains a few shout-outs to "Condos"/"WALK." Additionally: Did you know that I really like Kuroshitsuji?

**XXX**

**A Taste of Something**

**X**

_II_

"My son, eat honey, for it is good, and the drippings of the honeycomb are sweet to your taste."

-Proverbs 24:13

**XXX**

A Scientist is curious. That's the first things a Scientist is.

Well, no. Perhaps "curious" is secondary to other things; Scientists are very self-reliant, too, and Carlos would hardly want to undermine his propensity for independence. He is quite proud of his ability to persevere. To carry on with his intensive studies, alone, despite the darkening stains upon his reputation. It is, he thinks, kinder to view his life through the scope of self-sufficiency. Or, at least, preferable to remembering how his assistants quit, and the regularity with which his theses are made the laughing stock of the greater scientific community. Yes, it is ultimately easier on his ego to believe that Scientists are, first and foremost, self-reliant, rather than confess to anyone (himself included) that curiosity kills more than just cats, and that his most tenacious quality is in many ways responsible for the gradual deterioration of his professional standing.

But then, if a man cannot be honest with himself in the addled throes of a concussion, when can he be? Carlos sighs, nervously fingering his top hat, as he hesitates beneath one of the ornate archways of the Community Radio's elaborate edifice. The truth of the matter, he knows, is that curiosity and self-reliance have both played an equal role in getting him into his current predicament. They share the crown and the blame. Self-reliance, no doubt, is what sees him here alone.

Curiosity is what sees him here at _all_.

Curiosity has also coerced him into surreptitiously logging his surroundings, denoting details with the neurotic fervor of the supremely anxious. Scientists are observant, too. It's a byproduct of inquisitiveness, and the Baron puts that attribute to excellent use. In the vibrant light of an unseasonably icy eventide, the pale bricks of the stately construction have gained an ethereal glow; gradient rays of honeyed light burst against the edges of sharp corners, seeping down, down, down, puddling atop of and steadily being absorbed by the concrete. For a moment, the building itself looks as if it'd been encased in liquid amber. It gleams; it glistens. The setting sun settles with all the regality of a smelted crown, gilded and creeping. High above Carlos' head— closest to the clouds—, the contours of the third story lose their definition against the luminous offshoots of molten gold. But such metallic purity can only last so long. Slags of shadow are soon to follow, polluting the final twilight beams with an oily ichor. The blackness leaches, languid as the hundred mullioned windows blinking sleepily in the growing dim, their latticed glass lidded by the spiny ribs of artful buttresses. In daylight, the splendor of these structures is likely unprecedented; in darkness, Carlos thinks of the plague and malignant protrusions. Braced against those cancerous bulges, thin spires climb— meandering, like veins and vines— along the angles of the walls, coming to thorny points just beyond the flat of the roof. Taken together, the architectural design is reminiscent of a fortress: large and looming, medieval and terrifying, and the Scientist knows that the overall effect would have been enough to leave him horribly, fearfully impressed… had it not been for the sign that he was currently studying, head cocked and frowning.

His brow gains another wrinkle as his lips move soundlessly. Again, he re-reads the ornamental calligraphy.

_Keep Out, Steve!_

"…mayhaps I should refrain from asking," Carlos mutters to himself, making a grab for the ivory doorknocker. It would no doubt be the wiser choice, opting not to inquire. But in that same spirit of honest self-reflection… he rather doubts he'll manage. Wilting further, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of inevitability, the Baron moves to announce his presence—

But before the knocker can so much as tickle its door, the whole of it swings open, nearly taking Carlos' arm off in surprise. The Baron stumbles, startled; he tips like a toddler's toy, almost tripping back down the tiered steps. On the other side of the jamb, an elegantly suited gentleman appears equally staggered. From beneath a fringe of coal-colored bangs, vibrantly blue eyes appraise the Baron, wide in bemusement. Those same eyes stutter a blink, their attention darting from the gray of the gloves he had been affixing to the gray of his elderly butler, who does not appear overly perturbed about practically knocking Carlos off his feet. In fact, he seems rather amused. The servant husks a three-noted chortle, as if at some private joke.

The Scientist bristles. He is growing quite ill of people laughing at him, and the heartless beat of the concussion between his ears is not doing much to help Carlos remain courteous. He considers giving the pair a piece of his aching mind…

But there is some pacification to be found in the wayward butler's master, who had the good grace to look apologetic on his employee's behalf. "Oh, I do beg your pardon," he is saying, slipping two bands back upon the svelte lengths of his fingers. Even in alarm, his air is one of casual splendor, calm dignity. From the burden of those rings and the cut of his cloth, Carlos surmises a man of higher rank; an earl, perhaps. A businessman. He does vaguely recall the eagle emblem of the other's family crest, predominately pinned upon the flat of his breast. In fact, the Baron is quite sure he'd seen it… very recently…

He tries to shuffle through his mental notes, but loses his place with a flurry of nerves when the stranger before him—despite his evident superiority and lordly status— bows swiftly out of the Scientist's way, genial, genuine, and smiling sweetly. There is something inherently disconcerting about it, though Carlos fails to put his finger on what. He also fails keep a handle on himself, and realizes only after the fact that he has spent the entire exchange gawking like an asylum patient. Marvelous. No wonder the butler is still grinning like a loon; Carlos must look ridiculous. Quickly, he contorts the muscles of his face, then tries not to let this new mask fall when he is again spoken to.

"I wish you a most excellent evening, my Good Man," the stranger purrs, cordial. His voice is nearly as low as his stoop, inversely proportional to the height of his civility. He straightens only once Carlos is out of the cold. Then, he and his underling step into it.

"Uh… Likewise, of course," the Baron returns, not nearly as poised. He seals the crack in his retort with a cough, feeling markedly awkward as he lingers in the foyer, watching the wrinkled manservant close the vaulted door. The hinges whine as they slowly shut, their cry echoing and ominous. A banshee wail. The cadence of it reverberates down the Scientist's stiffened spine, raising hackles and gooseflesh. It's possible that he pales a bit, as well, as he truly comes to terms with where he is, what he's doing… An unanticipated claustrophobia begins to sink into his bones, despite the high ceiling and open lobbies of the club; he spins, frantic, towards the mahogany entrance— and is just in time to catch the butler shoot him a simper and a saucy wink.

There is a coffin-heavy _thud_. Sonorous. But the Scientist, in disbelief, temporarily forgets his anxieties.

That— Well. That had been… very friendly, he decides, eyes still wide from temporary stupefaction. Almost _unnervingly_ friendly. So friendly—or, at least, familiar—, that Carlos half-wonders if he had met the pair before, and has simply failed to summon their memory. It's a plausible hypothesis, given all that he's suffered. But then, having met the Marquis who runs this establishment, neither would it be overly shocking to discover that those men were simply unmindful of societal normalcies. Like attracts like, and Cecil is nothing if not disturbingly affable. It makes sense that his acquaintances should be equally… coquettish. As should those in his acquaintances' employ. Carlos supposes.

But on the subject of the Marquis…

"Where might he be…?" the Baron whispers, if only to loosen the heavy hold of silence. The vestibule is as imposingly gothic as the building's face had suggested it'd be, though crafted from varnished wood rather than additional rock. The segmented walls have been plastered in hues of rich wine: cabernet, merlot, and pinot noir, warm and intoxicating. Lulling. Carlos indulges in a deep breath, allowing the somnolent shades and the heady perfumes of sandalwood, cigars, and spiced cologne to further sooth his nerves. He tips his head back, further opening his airways; interspersed between the grated windows and along the spacious halls, velveteen portraits of predominant club members and city councilmen hang on display. He tips his head forward, trying to recollect himself; the lathed floorboards he finds are long and lean, ancient but glossy. They lead him, obstinately, down the meandering corridor: over rugs from the orient and carpets from Turkey, vivid in design and color. Vases, statues, and other cultural trappings sit on displays in pocketed alcoves, their borders flickering on the edges of believable existence with each ruddy gutter of lamplight. Carlos finds himself thinking of ghosts. How he should write a paper on the phenomenon. The idea is further cemented whenever he drifts past a side chamber, and is temporarily privileged to the muffled, jolly noises that resonate from within. The unknown entices as much as it frightens. But these lesser mysteries are gradually pushed from both mind and ear as he nears the end of the passage, and is overwhelmed by the growing din of sophistication.

Carlos braces himself, preparing for the strangest, the worst—

…and is just shy of _disappointed _when he steps into a rather mundane, if opulently elegant, lounge space. The ornamentation and general décor are identical to that which he'd enjoyed in the foyer; in many ways, it merely appears that the walls have expanded outward, opening wide to accommodate the zealous masses in the belly of the building. Soft chaises, stretched sofas, and violet-velvet armchairs with legs of twisted, burnished metal have been invitingly arranged beside the countless windows and countable fireplaces, the latter of which have been decorated by carved cruciform convictions set within the marble of their mantles. Polished cherry wood tables— heavy with ashtrays, books, and playing flats—, glint darkly in the rising haze of smoke and roseate candlelight. Crystal tumblers of umber liquors twinkle atop the black of those countertops: greedy little stars that try and fail to hold all of the room's light. It's a very lethargic scene, cozy without losing its atmosphere of refinement, and a great many men are taking full advantage of its luxuries. The Baron's sudden appearance is, on the whole, largely ignored.

That is, until another man sidles disturbingly close, smelling strongly of old parchment and dust. He had been as noiseless as a cat in his approach; Carlos only notices him when the tweed of a suit-coat catches against his sleeve. Under normal circumstances, the Scientist knows that he might have gasped and leapt in a show of shock... But his body seems to have grown weary of that response over the course of the last few days. So instead, he merely blinks, looking dazed, and more than a touch hesitant to reflect the overeager smile being flashed in his direction.

"A good evening to you, old chap," says this beaming man, and yes, Carlos decides belatedly: all evidence suggests that those who roost here must simply be ludicrously sociable. A tightly-knit, yet accepting community. Or so he might conclude, now that a few others are looking his way, whispering. Smirking. Not in a manner which might be described as threatening, but… Still, in the wake of what he'd witnessed in that alley, the Baron feels he has a right to be wary. The glass held between himself and this newest stranger is victim to a cagey glance. Prying and distrustful. But if it had been tampered with, spat in, or cunningly poisoned, the drink gives no secret away. The oaky beverage only glimmers, much like the heavy ring upon the other's thumb. Both seem innocent enough.

With no sane reason to reject it and every social cue to spur him on, Carlos receives the tumbler with delicacy. He does not drink—not yet, anyway— but instead holds the weighted crystal between the tips of his fingers. The heavy lip of the cup's open mouth does not close to the pressure; he remembers, vividly and viscerally, other open mouths… And in his efforts not to retch, he nearly misses his companion elatedly inquiring: "Pray forgive, I do realize the gaffe in being so very forward… But might you be that Baron named Carlos, the most esteemed Scientist?"

Carlos nearly drops his glass.

"I— '_esteemed'_?" The echoed word has to be aggressively spat from his mouth, its taste is so alien; he winds up sounding as scandalized as if the intended accolade had been the worst kind of offense. In the same instant, Carlos twists his head fully towards the other man, expecting to find telling traces of sarcasm… But instead, he discovers features that are lax with innocent interest. Sincerity. There had not been a trace of irony in the query, and neither can any be found upon the contours of this gentleman's face. It leaves the Scientist feeling oddly winded. "I am, as you say, a Baron named Carlos… But I highly doubt that any of my illustrious peers would ever venture so far as to regard my work with _esteem_."

Again, the compliment sounds like a curse. If the bitterness smoldering beneath the retort is noticed, however, it is ignored; the other, for his part, does nothing more than brighten to find his suspicions confirmed.

"Well, I certainly would," he cheerfully challenges, extending the hand that had moments ago been holding the extra glass. As he had the drink, Carlos accepts this, too, though with a touch less reluctance. The ring upon the other's thumb is cold against his skin. Oddly grounding. He is still waiting for the punch line to this grand joke, but in the meantime… "It is, I assure you, the greatest pleasure to meet you, my Lord. A very high honor. I could hardly believe the Marquis when he said that there was a chance you might be joining us! I am Harrison Kip, an associate professor at a local institution, and I must say, Sir, that I have read every one of your many dissertations, and considered each more titillating than the last!"

"…indeed?" Carlos weakly prompts, taking a modicum of pride in how he manages to quash the wavering note of hopefulness in his voice. His nails grind into the lead crystal of his cup; his companion chokes on a swallow of brandy in his enthusiasm to reassure the Scientist. The beverage in that beaker gives a dangerous slosh as it is yanked unceremoniously away from the older man's lips, removed so that Mister Kip might continue raving.

"Quite, quite! In truth, the great majority of we Community Radio members have studied your academic work at one time or another, though I might be bold enough to claim myself your most ardent admirer." The professor snorts, as if in bashful mockery of his own foolish tendencies. He has a bit of chalk dust on his lapel and the knees of his trousers; the white of it matches his wide, shining eyes as he leans impossibly closer, happily boisterous once more. "If I may, good Sir, I was _particularly_ intrigued by your piece on incantations and the power of language upon the subliminal minds of man. Most notably, the subsection wherein you discussed common views held in the Orient and beyond. That was _delightfully_ boggling— those foreign, yet oddly familiar concepts of Japan's _kotodama_, the Indian's '_ebra kidbara_,' the native's hoodoo… The _idea_ of 'magic words' that are not quite so much 'magic' as they are deeply implanted suggestions within the human consciousness! That language holds within it the great, glowing coils of the universe, winding and unwinding, and if mastered… Oh, the implications are enormous. Think of what we, as a race, might accomplish were we able to fully harness that power!"

Harrison nods, prompting. The Baron splutters, dumbfounded. Dumbfounded, and not entirely comfortable with the gleam in the other's piercing eyes. Still flattered, but also increasingly uneasy, Carlos forces his back to arch in a series of painful ways, bending backwards as his personal space is, _somehow_, even more intimately invaded. "W-well," he then hedges, "it was my hope that further exploration into these so-called spells might prove beneficial in modernizing therapeutic practices. Based upon this research, and a similar study I did on prayer, it is theoretically possible that those suffering from disease could learn to overcome certain ailments through positive thinking alone."

"Well, yes, of course, there is _that_," the other agrees flippantly, fingers fluttering with the dismissiveness of feathers in a duster. Those minute motes hovering, suspended, in the still of the musty air are sent into a swirling flurry, much like altruistic protests. "But think of the other avenues such a skill might prove useful. Why, productivity in all areas of the empire would increase exponentially if one could simply _convince _their students, children, employees, spouses, or what-have-you to focus on what needs focusing… One need never worry about riots on the streets, corporate coups, or gang shenanigans… Simply say the right words in the proper tone, and order can be peacefully maintained."

"I… I suppose. Yet—"

"Yet would such power not grievously clash with our inherent right to free will?" another interrupts, cutting in from somewhere near Carlos' shoulder. The voice is casual, but intelligent; blunt, but melodic. "Pray, how could we express ourselves, let alone our personal desires, if our every utterance might unduly warp the minds of those around us? What effect would this have on our capacity to feel emotions on a personal level? What might it do to the concept of _empathy_? Would we even be human anymore, or would we be reduced to a hive-minded collective, all sharing a single queen's thoughts? The latter seems more likely, and very much a world in which associate professors are unneeded, don't you think?"

Staggeringly, the voice is also female. And so it follows that, when the astonished Scientist turns, it is to find a woman standing insouciantly beside him, quirking a wicked smile at the faintly shamefaced Mister Kip. His reaction suggests an acquaintanceship, but Carlos does not know her. Nor does Carlos know what a woman is doing in a gentleman's club in the first place. The Baron considers this, and her, with an intensity that borders on rudeness. It is, he admits, sometimes difficult for him to remember the difference between specimens and humans. But taking her as either, specimen or human: she is lovely.

The woman—for she is a woman, albeit one no older than 17— is on the taller end of petite, with the rounded edges and smooth angles inherent of the fairer sex. And she is, indeed, quite fair in structure. Almond eyes, full lips, and a button nose so perfectly sculpted as to evoke jealousy from baroque dolls. But the "fairness" ends there. Her suede skin, silky and unblemished, is a shade even darker than Carlos' own: the blackest tea mixed with the sweetest cream, and poured into a long, laced corset. The layered gown beneath her bodice blooms about her boots in earthy shades of jade and russet, flecked with the same fibrous gold as her dark irises. The gleam of both serve well to compliment the austere pendant coiled around her high-necked collar: a black gem set within an elliptical, rust-gilt frame, held against her throat by a leather cord. Carlos is not a geologist, nor an active connoisseur of jewels… But his recent paper on electricity had brought him into frequent enough contact with tourmaline to recognize a generous wedge of it.

She grins again. And perhaps it is due to recent focus on such things, but the Baron cannot help noticing that her teeth are very, very white. "For better or for worse, my dear Professor Kip," the young woman continues lively, "what you suggest to inflict upon the masses is a form of mind control. I can hardly imagine the _good Scientist_ condoning so heinous a practice." She tilts her face beguilingly towards Carlos, coal lashes half-lidded and casting shadows over the faintest impression of freckles. The expression is heavy with knowing, its corners sharp enough to be caustic. Her shallow bow suggests respect, but it is alone in doing so. Her displeasure is almost tangible.

The Scientist wonders distantly if he's already managed to insult her, too, as he had the Marquis' ginger colleague. Logically, he can't imagine how. But then, those close to Mister Palmer seem to operate on very little logic. Or, at least, a logic entirely their own. Carlos does not quite follow it, but it seems that others can. Mister Kip, for instance, who is looking sheepish enough to be mistaken for a lamb.

"O-oh, but I do think! I do!"

The Baron watches, morbidly fascinated, as splotches of scarlet stain the back of the professor's stubbled neck, the protruding shells of his ears. He is soon stumbling, both over words and the splay of his feet. "Of course, Miss Dana, I meant to imply no such evil!" Mister Kip shudders, mortified, as Carlos darts a glance between these two absurd players, sensing full libraries of subtext beneath their performance. He is also beginning to sense the hierarchy here.

"Of course you didn't."

"I am all talk, you know that. A prattler. It is the burden of we academics, they say. We are always trying to pick the world apart and put it back together in some new form. In our _minds_, I assure you. Only there. I would never—to even _suggest _that I might try to… Well! It is just shy of blasphemy, to consider the Baron's work thusly. Unspeakable."

"If that is so, then it would be better not to speak at all! Do you not agree?" The woman—this Miss Dana— beams as brightly as the harvest moon. Beneath the shine of it, the older man winces, chuckling weakly. By now, their exchange is being eagerly followed by the rest of those gathered. There are a few mutters behind raised hands, and more than one longing, lingering glance at Carlos' hair. He tries not to think on that. He doesn't _want _to think on that. Which is just as well, because it is then that Dana turns upon him, and he is unable to focus on anything else. "As for you, Sir Scientist!" she sings, "I offer you a most humble welcome, as well as my sincere apologies for leaving you to wander alone for so long. I had anticipated meeting you at the door upon your arrival, but I must have _missed_ the announcement of your presence. I am dreadfully sorry."

There is no hint of accusation in her expression or her statement. Nothing to suggest annoyance or blame. And yet, somehow, Carlos can still hear it— can sense, in some primal way, her irritation at his blatant disregard for decorum. He cannot blame her; thinking back, to amble blindly about this foreign manor was hardly the wisest, or the most appropriate, decision that he had ever made. Which is saying something, unfortunately. Humiliated for his own reasons, Carlos joins Mister Kip in looking guilty and contrite, if not downright self-conscious. "The fault is mine, I assure you," he manages feebly, receiving the hand that she deems to offer and brushing a kiss against the back of it. Her wrist smells of cinquefoil blossoms. This seems important, though he can hardly imagine why. "I was so taken by the majesty around me, my head got lost and my announcement with it. That you found me at all is proof of your attentiveness, my Lady."

"You flatter me," Dana returns, slipping from his grasp with a graceful curtsy. Her tresses, as onyx and curly as Carlos' own, flounce gaily in the wake of the dip. Some ringlets are still bouncing as she gestures towards the door, slender hand upturned in invitation. "As I am sure your compliments will flatter the Master, who anticipates your presence most eagerly. If you would follow me, please?" she glibly appends, with an encouraging sweep of her skirts. It sounds like a request.

It does not feel like one.

Carlos follows.

**X**

"I, uh, beg that you pardon my rudeness, but I am not familiar with these sorts of… establishments. Is it not unusual for a woman to be so accustomed to the halls of a gentleman's club? Much less be confident enough to stroll about its passages without an escort?"

It says a great deal, Carlos thinks, about the thickness and weight of the silence they have been traversing in that he should pluck up the courage to ask something so prying. Or to speak at all, really. He winces, as if the reverberation of his voice against the plastered walls and lacquered floors had brought him physical pain. It hadn't. And neither does the sharp of Dana's sidelong stare, though it does send a cascade of shivers down the camber of his backbone: tiny toy marbles that bounce off the knobs of his vertebrae, clattering against one another as his feet clatter against hardwood. The Baron fears he might slip-up. Figuratively, or literally.

Dana regards him for a long moment before speaking.

"I am well acquainted with all of the Master's homes and hideaways," she then explains, her tone clipped but spruced with challenge. In the safety of relative privacy, her smile has waned; her demeanor has lost any former traces of the sun. Even the moon requires its light to glow, but her conduct is now void of even the coldest, farthest stars. A sky as black as her jewelry. She would frighten a lesser man. A lesser man who Carlos tries very hard not to emulate. "I would hardly be much help to him otherwise."

"Is that your role, then?" the Scientist presses, if only to keep from enduring another lull. She sighs, tetchy. The susurrating song of her skirts picks up its tempo, as does the metronome of her soles. "Are you hired help?"

"I am help," the girl confirms, no longer bequeathing upon him the honor of her regard. She marches on, a few feet ahead, with a regality generally reserved for queens. Her tone betrays no emotion, no expression, as she continues, "I was not hired."

Oh.

"…I see." Carlos makes a sound then, soft. Sympathetic, sorrowful, frayed by the acidity of the bile rising in his throat. He had postulated, of course—the evidence was overwhelming, essentially staring him in the face. Dana is young, a woman, a person of color… the obvious conclusion, while distasteful, is clear. Even still, the Marquis had seemed so very _genuine_ in his intellectual interest in Carlos, colored or not; the Baron had thought… Hoped, perhaps, that this might make Mister Palmer a higher-minded man. At least where the abominable act of slavery is involved. But apparently, no. The Scientist feels his gut clench, as if in mimicry of the hands against his thighs. His bowels squirm as much from anxiety as they do from disgust. From the betrayal of expectation.

There is another flash in his mind, another image of a helpless, betrayed girl… This man is heartless.

"For whatever it's worth, Miss Dana," the Baron murmurs, compassionate but cautious, his molars grinding down on coarser accusations, "you have my respect and pity. England's too, in time. Views are changing, evolving with this nation's morality, and soon even the government will be forced to recognize that men who keep slaves are not men at all. This Marquis for whom you toil… he shall be judged for his savagery, no doubt. Perhaps even in your lifetime, you might see him pay fo—"

Carlos, impassioned by his impromptu sermon, is so engrossed in his own rage that he completely fails to notice the way that Dana stills. He further misses the sudden rigidity of her posture— her spine stiff in ways no corset can be held accountable for. He does, _eventually_, take note of her tightening fist… But only after it has collided soundly with the bone of his cheek, sending both his thoughts and body reeling.

The world spins—or maybe his head does— and it's only after he's slouched against the wall, shoulder braced for much needed support, that Carlos can even begin to piece together what had happened.

He… Had he just been slugged by a woman?

"Churlish muppet!" The insult cracks through the turbulent air like lightening, untold volts of vehemence striking the Baron with nearly the same physicality as that punch. His spine is left sizzling; his innards are reduced to cinders. Dana snarls—a drawn, thunderous rumble of sound— the whole of her torso quiveringwith a fury that can hardly be contained. Sparse lamplight catches on the heaving swell of her bosom, and the impressive trinket that rests atop it; the cosmos of it shimmers— lambent, threatening — in imitation of her wide, dark eyes. "How dare you slander the Master with such baseless accusations?! I was assured that Scientists are men of sense and reason—not presumptive fools who condemn without cause! How dare you!"

Carlos, for his part, can do little more than gape: fish-eyed and open-mouthed. The latter reaction sends a fractal burst of pain through the ruptured vessels of his cheek, jaw sore and twitching. He fingers Dana's handiwork tenderly, flinching at the steady ache of it. Nothing is broken, but he will no doubt sport a bruise. Likely one that matches the building's color scheme. The Baron winces both at the pressure of this new injury, and the pressure building behind his eyes; the migraine, earlier planted, is blossoming within the darkness of his thoughts, its stamens scraping and pushing against his skull. Carlos wonders if his head is _ever _going to stop hurting. "I— M-madam, if I have offended, I—! I only meant that…!"

"I care not for what you meant," she interrupts, with a flair of her nostrils and a flick of her wrist. Her heels click against the floorboards as she advances. Carlos can think only of gavels and judges. Though, at this point, he is thankful to be thinking at all. His brain feels much like the clapper of a bell; everything between his ears is ringing louder than ever. He is starting to doubt that sound will _ever _fade. "I _know_ what you meant. But intention means little in life, and you strike me as a man full of nothing _but_ good intention. The Master needs no more roads to hell, Sir, paved or otherwise."

Her feet come to a still with a sound like a penny dropping. Or something dropping, anyway— a seed of egotism, perhaps, knocked loose by a small fist. With it gone, other thoughts are able to be sowed. And for the first time, it occurs to Carlos that this might not actually be about _him_. That Earl's aloofness, Dana's barbs, are not the byproducts of an unmerited distaste for the Baron as a person: they are the first layers of a protective, near-impenetrable defensive wall, raised like hackles when _anyone _dares to venture too close to the Marquis. Or, presumably, when the Marquis shows interest in unapproved strangers. What Mister Palmer might have done—or, more precisely, who Mister Palmer might _be_—to merit this sort of unwavering loyalty in two people of such powerful wills, Carlos can only guess.

Mainly because he has no opportunity to ask outright.

"Dana, darling, I have told you time and again to stop calling me that. 'Cecil' is more than sufficient."

"Master!"

Her alarm is self-evident. Carlos assumes his own is, as well. In an instant of bizarre camaraderie, the pair of them lock eyes, knees. There is a beat. A breath. The fabric petals of Dana's garb flower outward as she twirls, metallic filaments winking when rosy lamplight trips upon their threads, sparkling in fulgurant eruptions. "What are you doing out of your quarters? You should be resting!"

Behind her, but tucked against the adjacent end of the corridor, Cecil is lounging, chuckling. The lilt of his laughter is enough to liquefy the forged locks of Carlos' legs, reducing his joints to jelly. The Baron sags a bit against the wall, as if in poor imitation of the Marquis' lither loll. "Should you and the good Earl have your way, I would do nothing _but _rest," the man replies, folding his arms in affectionate exasperation over the narrow expanse of his chest. He is a vision of mauve today, down to the laces on his shoes and the tip of his cane. The latter is clearly decorative; he brandishes it with no point or purpose.

"Besides, how could I possibly rest, what with the promise of a new guest? I grew agitated in my excitement, and came to meet our company half-way. Have you been playing nice, Precious Pearl?" he queries lightly, only then turning his bespectacled gaze upon Carlos. Carlos, for his part, becomes aware in that same instant that he is about to be scrutinized, and scrambles desperately to straighten. To compose himself. Unfortunately, Cecil still manages to spot him at his worst: palm pressed to his face and features wild with disorientation. The overall effect is enough to add a dry edge to the Marquis' smile. "Ah me. My little Rook and my Elfin Knight… Whatever shall I do with you both? Naughty creatures," Mister Palmer chastises, shoving from his roost and meandering to Dana's side. Carlos, ever inquiring, watches this exchange: watches her watch him watch her. The wobble of her bottom lip and the steady of his stare, the hover of his hand over the camber of her clothed shoulder… "I believe you owe our honored guest an apology," he continues softly, turning himself and his companion more fully towards the Scientist. The touch is feather-light, but unable to be resisted. The Baron knows, because he sees her try.

"But Master!" Dana protests, fighting against the request in both word and deed. Her body is twisted, but her head remains stubbornly sidelong, regarding the Marquis with a virulent mixture of frustration and betrayal. Cecil, young himself, is not quite tall, not quite short, but he looks closer to the former when standing beside the diminutive Dana. Her chin is angled a touch _up_ as she pouts at him. "Master, he said the most terrible things about you—!"

"That I may or may not have been offended by, had I been present to hear them," the Marquis smoothly interjects, ever suave in his stalwart composure. "As it is, the only lasting damage done has been to the good Scientist's lovely face, which I consider an irrefutable tragedy. Please apologize to him," he says again, in a tone that leaves even less room for dissent. Still, the woman manages to find a place for herself.

"I shan't."

"Adana…"

"No, please!" To the surprise of all present—himself very much included—Carlos rediscovers his voice in a desperate rush, the buildup of words straining against his throat and threatening to tear through his very skin. He manages, at last, to right himself properly; like the gentleman he tries very hard to be, he stands—noble, collected, and with only a few contusions— before the bickering pair. "There is no need to force her, Sir. I was in the wrong, and I… I cannot but admire her fortitude in the matter." The Scientist offers Dana a small, and only slightly pained, grin. She does not return it, but the warmth of his indulgence does go far in thawing the ice of her glower. "You are a fortunate man indeed, my Lord, to have earned such impressive loyalty from a… friend."

He turns that same smile upon the Marquis, who regards its lopsided lay with only a trace amount of suspicion. The younger man, disturbingly impassive, soon flicks his pale stare back towards Dana; she remains smartly posed with her arms crossed in knots and her jaw set in defiance. Her black, speckled eyes challenge her Master to express any other qualms regarding her actions, but Mister Palmer—after a long minute— does nothing more than shrug.

"…well, then. If that is how the gracious Baron feels, I will say no more on the matter," he chirps, with a vivacious cheer and a dismissive brush of his long-fingered hands. His overall airiness serves well to lighten the oppressive atmosphere, clearing it of accumulating spite. Carlos suddenly finds it much easier to breathe; mulish Dana, shockingly, seems to share this sentiment. He sees her, if but from the corner of his eye, inhaling deeply. Steadying. She had been more rattled by the Marquis' disapproval than she had let on, he figures. He finds this rather makes him respect her more.

Cecil, meanwhile, presses on, either oblivious to or purposefully ignoring their calming gasps. The Baron suspects the latter, and is grateful. He is equally grateful when all attention slides, if temporarily, away from his person.

"As always, my Jewel, I thank you for today's assistance," the Marquis is telling Dana, a gloved finger crooked beneath the curve of her chin. Carlos senses ritual in the exchange. Something private and practiced. It would be good manners to look away, but as these two don't seem to put much stock in such things, the Baron doesn't bother. "But for now it is late, and little pearls should be returning to their cloisters in the sea. Earl awaits you in the vestibule, and a carriage beyond that door. You would do me a great service by allowing him to escort you home, Little One."

The young woman, still nervy in the wake of petulance, nods in mute assent to the request. Her chest palpitates, her nails grind into her palm. But her features do relax, if just a fraction, when Mister Palmer leans forward to press a chaste kiss to her forehead. "Go on then," he encourages, urging her off and back down the hall. The note of finality in his tone is unmistakable; she turns at once, renouncing the men without any further fuss. She does, however, take a moment— half-way to the shadows— to snap upon Carlos a last, warning glance from over the mount of her shoulder. It rather makes the Baron shrink.

The Marquis, beaming blithely beside his guest, waves a jolly farewell throughout the whole of this exchange. He drops the grin and palm only after Dana has vanished beyond the farthest, darkest corner.

"…you would do well not to enable her, gentle Carlos," he chides then, with a long-suffering lassitude Carlos knows best from nannies and governesses. He reassesses earlier presumptions as his host shakes his head, draping one hand atop the other and placing both on the head of his ornamental walking stick. The ebony leather of his fashionable half-gloves add a shine to his fingers as they flex and curl. "She is a dear creature, bless, but becomes more obstinate by the day."

"Is… If I may, is she your _charge_, your Lordship?" the Baron inquires, feigning some manner of innocence. He would prefer to preserve the other's ignorance on the matter which had resulted in the earlier tiff, if only to stave off further embarrassment. Not to mention injury to his person. "She appears quite, er, taken with you, Sir."

"Cecil," the Marquis corrects, speaking on reflex alone; he appears to be half-distracted by some other musing. His focus—honed in upon the gloom— is such that Carlos suspects Dana of having made a habit of ignoring Mister Palmer's orders in the past, and he now half-expects her head to pop disobediently out from around the corner. And what with the ambient shades, the ancient building, his ethereal gaze… It rather feels like the start of a ghost-hunt. Or something similarly ominous. The Scientist jitters; the other waits. One tick, two—

Three. The Marquis visibly relaxes, turning again to face his bedraggled guest. The pale of his eyes are dancing with enough sudden enthusiasm as to catch Carlos terribly off-guard, not having expected such a tonal shift. The jagged split of the younger man's face does nothing to calm the Baron, either; his grin is so broad, it's nigh-maniacal. Carlos half-expects Mister Palmer to start giggling like a school boy, to boot. What is it about Carlos' boring, analytical self, he wonders, that reduces one so mysterious and urbane to… whatever _this_ is?

"I've told you. Cecil. Cecil Palmer. It is my name, Sir Scientist, and I would prefer that you use it. As for Dana," he promptly adds, hearing the query's reprisal before his guest can move to speak it, "I suppose the term 'charge' carries with it a degree of accuracy. My dear Earl's organization runs something of an… apprenticeship program, to which young orphans might be recruited, or invited, depending upon the circumstances of their family's demise. Unfortunately, their ranks are open only to young lads. The lasses they have no use for, and are often given to me."

Carlos' blank expression must betray some hint of his immediate assumption, for Cecil is soon gasping, horrified, his arms pinwheeling with the frantic desperation of a man trying to stay afloat. He splutters, high tide rushing beneath his pasty skin and dying his face a vivid ruby.

"Not for anything untowardly!" he gasps in amendment, clearly mortified by his own poor phrasing. "Oh goodness, no! No, I find those poor children new families. That is all. Or, should that endeavor be ill-fated, my home staff provides training until we can find the girls some avenue of proper employment. A young Dana was chased from the jungles of Africa at the tender age of 5, her village decimated by some malevolent beastie. She was soon after placed in my care, and later on, the care of a well-to-do family in the greater London area. But she is a willful child, as you yourself have seen," Mister Palmer continues, with a roll of his eyes that does nothing to belay his evident affection, "and I discovered her time and again playing on the floor of my drawing room, as if some equally willful Elf had taught her how to sneak back into my home. Really, she made it quite plain that I was stuck with her, regardless of my own feelings on the matter, and so her adoptive parents and I came to an agreement, of sorts. Now, she remains in my care as well as in theirs."

As he speaks, the Marquis gestures wordlessly for Carlos to follow. They continue—much as he and Dana had—through labyrinthine passageways and down frosty steps, spiraling in idle loops through the bowels of the building. The rhythmic click-clack of heels and cane pace the tale; it is a metronome by which Cecil times his hypnotic baritone. The resultant weave of tempo and tone induces something of a trance… The Baron nods, accepting, and without fully acknowledging or even _noticing_ the protests and questions niggling away in the back of his mind. It's just as well. His thoughts are now like blank puzzle pieces; having no grasp on the greater picture makes it difficult to know how to slot things together correctly.

He leaves that mystery be for a time. Plucks up another piece, musing.

"Is, uh, 'Steve' such a charge, too?" Carlos inquires, shuffling quickly to keep step as they make their way through a series of vaulted arches. On the broad flats of the doorless jambs, circling from floor to ceiling and back in a twining mobius loop, a series of unreadable glyphs have been carved into thorny chains, their grooves a shallow pool for collecting shadows. As the pair steps through, the Scientist could swear that the incomprehensible scrawls… wriggle. Though of course, this must be some trick of the light. The very low, low light. The abnormally _indigo_ light, somehow cautionary, and so faint that Carlos hardly notices it, sans the moment they step through each of these three thresholds. The glow pulses. He hears something skitter, scratching about on spindly legs. And it's all very queer, yes, but easily attributed to mundane sources: bioluminescent fungus or moss spores caught in the deepest ruts of the bizarre markings. And rats, of course. Obviously rats. Well, presumably rats. Maybe mice? It doesn't matter. As confirming any of these theories would first require suggesting that the Marquis keeps his club in a state of unkemptness, the Baron pushes such curiosities asides. For now. He has imputed Cecil's honor enough for one night. Instead, he presses, "The sign on the door. Does it refer to another headstrong child? Has 'Steve,' whoever he might be, made a bad habit of sneaking into this establishment?"

Cecil comes to such a swift stop that it nearly causes a head-on collision; Carlos barely manages to avoid ramming fully against the Marquis' back. The effort involves quite a bit of ungainly flailing, none of which—thankfully—takes place in his host's line of sight. Still, despite reigning mostly triumphant, the Baron cannot keep from bumping against Mister Palmer's stiff shoulder, now frozen before some undistinguished entryway.

The Marquis gives as much as a statue might. In fact, the Baron thinks a statue might give a little more; Cecil does not so much as sway, leaving Carlos' already abused body as tender as if he'd fallen against the stone wall of this cellar. In his mind, the Scientist curses. Beneath his breath, his host does the same.

"_Steve_," Mister Palmer grounds out, features pinched and black with loathing as he scowls, presumably at some private collection of memories. His half-gloves squeal; his tendons strain dangerously beneath the porcelain of his clenched fists. Self-preservation has Carlos hopping speedily backwards, lest he be noticed and further lashed at in the throes of spite. "Steve _Carlsberg. _An abomination of a man. No— no, hardly a man! No man at all! A _man_ knows how to properly care for the spokes of his carriage. Ugh. _Steve_."

The Marquis shudders, lip curled. Carlos figures this is answer enough, though it tells him nothing of significance.

"Right then…"

"_Steve Carlsberg_," the younger man mutters one last time—as if for good measure— grumping to himself as he picks his waistcoat pockets for some unspecified treasure. The watchless fob chain tinkles sweetly as its many charms are jangled, haloing lamplight outlining faceted faces of all colors and clarities. As the Marquis fumbles, distracted, Carlos observes. The gems are well cared for, recently cleaned and polished. Some are set within elaborate bases of silver; others have been mounted upon gold, copper, or brass. Still others have no framework at all, or have been caged within traps and helixes of thin wires. It all seems very significant, despite the clutter and randomness and lack of any discernible style. Even the Marquis' pinkie ring—which flashes with a glossy opaqueness as Cecil victoriously extracts a skeleton key— fails to match any other article or accessory. Carlos supposes it must come down to vanity, or some desire to flaunt his wealth. Such a habit doesn't quite mesh with what little he's ascertained about Cecil's personality, but the man is a bit of a strutting paradox. Flamboyant, as well.

As if to highlight this, Cecil places his key in the lock of the door with an unnecessary flourish, fingers flickering in some rapid, complicated series of gestures. The play seems foolish, at first—then secretive, like some coded language. This latter musing brings to mind, in a visceral flash, the odd signals that the Marquis had made over the body of that murdered child… Carlos' stomach flips and flops; he means to see if he can discern some relation between the two sequences, but his attention comes into focus the same moment that Mister Palmer's hands cease in their display. And although he remembers studying the flurrying spectacle in the alleyway quite intently, the Baron now cannot seem to recall even one of the other's fluid movements. Carlos finds he's been reduced to doing no more than watching his host turn the ornate key.

And as it turns, so does the Earth itself.

Or so it _feels_, anyway. Carlos gasps, disorientated, as he clutches his head against a sourceless sense of vertigo. The ground remains flat; the hall is motionless. He is cognizant of that. But still, inexplicably, the Scientist knows that something, if briefly, had been set on its side and forced apart. Pried, or ripped. Or perhaps churned. He feels queasy. Just shy of seasick. At least, he _thinks_ he does… But then the sensation is gone, passing within the same heartbeat as it had curdled his innards, chased away by the sounds of a rusty crank and chinking gears. The heavy _thud _of an unseen mechanism resonates through his legs, each reverberation some near-physical bolt of sensation that temporarily supports him with its strength. Then the door— rectangular, plain, and crafted from a single plank of black wood— releases itself with a creak.

It all seems a touch histrionic, really.

But Carlos holds his tongue on that count, merely watching as Cecil pushes the door open more fully, inviting. "After you," he insists, with a courteous bow. And while the Baron supposes it would be wise to employ some modicum of trepidation when being ushered into a secret basement room by a stranger clearly inflicted with some undiagnosed psychosis, he can't seem to muster the energy to be anything more than morbidly interested. Perhaps he's a touch mad, too. Considering what he's willingly put himself through, lately, the evidence would seem to indicate as such.

"Thank you," Carlos returns— for lack of a more appropriate response— and steps boldly into the unknown. Takes a breath. Looks around. Blinks in surprise.

What with all the effort made by earlier ambiance— the sinister galleries and increasingly sparse décor, eerie arches and empty wings— the Baron had half-expected to find himself in a scene from a gothic novella come to life. Traces of half-finished human experiments, for instance, complete with blood stains on the rugs and corners netted with spider webs. But no, the room in which he finds himself is quite… pleasant. The floor has been lathed together by varnished planks of mahogany, warm to the eyes and heady with age. No sumptuous carpets clutter the oblong expanse of this space, though he does spot a matching pair of wingback armchairs lounging near a marble fireplace. The walls, unpainted, blend seamlessly with the floorboards, and are trimmed—much like the mantel, the jamb, and a jutting bar table— with glinting golden inlay. Upon closer inspection, the gilt has suffered the same damage as the earlier archways: pin-needle scritches, peculiarly violet in the electrical lamplight, that make indecipherable promises in ouroboros loops. Besides this atypical display of calligraphy, the only other embellishment to this surprisingly homely apartment is a rather extensive collection of pinned butterflies, skillfully framed behind dense glass and cedar wood. Evenly spaced and precisely at eye-level, the cases have been hung in a perfectly straight line along the adjacent wall. And while they are not out of place from an ornamental standpoint, the Baron does feel a twinge of a surprise upon spotting them. It seems a shockingly naturalistic hobby from one such as Cecil, who claims to know so little of Science.

Intrigued by yet another anomaly, Carlos takes six steps closer— suede fingers laced behind his back as he peers more carefully at the captured creatures. From the spiraled ribbon of their proboscises to the delicate barbs of their tarsi, they are perfectly preserved specimen; they've clearly been handled with the utmost care. It's quite impressive. Equally so is the collection itself: _Aglais urticae, Celastrina argiolus, Cynthia cardui, Favonius quercus, Papilio machaon_... The textured parchment of each affixed label has been inscribed by the same hand, with the same ink, as the dozens of calling cards now littered about Carlos' manor. Something about this truth, this shared gift, strikes him as… intimate. Intimate, yet foreboding. Ominous, like foreshadowing in literature. With the abruptness of an anxiety attack, the Baron finds himself feeling trapped— the irrational sensation exacerbated by his own face staring back at him from the opposite side of the mounting glass.A reflection, only his reflection… But that doesn't stop an icy thrill from leaping down the Scientist's spine, prickly as pins between the slotted nobs of his bones. He shudders; his head aches like something stuffed. He swallows; the gossamer wings of the inert insects shimmer, jewel-bright, within their crystal chrysalises.

He turns away, but can feel their ghosts fluttering in the pulse beneath his skin. Droning and whirling between his ears, the sound of it swells, _crests_—

"Again, I offer my most sincere apologies for… Well, for our every encounter thus far, I fear."

—goes silent. Dead silent. Carlos starts, temporarily flummoxed, as his senses scramble to again hone in upon his host, lurking somewhere behind him and to his right. He whirls to find Mister Palmer tinkering about around the island of the bar, setting upon its varnished surface a lead crystal decanter and a set of mismatched glasses. One resembles the tumbler he'd been handed in the lounge: heavy, squat, and bearing some crest upon the flat of a hexagonal faucet. The other is a goblet, archaic in its austere design, hewn not from crystal or glass but a rich purple stone. Amethyst, Carlos suspects, from its clarity and cut. There is already some liquid rippling in this latter chalice, though from its thinness it could hardly be wine—only dyed by the gem to resemble such. Water? Discounting his recent swan dive, the Marquis does give the impression of one with a delicate constitution… perhaps too delicate to handle much liquor. For some reason, the idea of this invokes a grin. Carlos feels his nerves calm, if only a touch, by the mental image of his exuberant, elegant enigma sloppily drunk from one swig of port.

Cecil, for his part, interprets the Baron's tiny smile as a sign of encouragement, having no other hint as to its origin. He offers a wider one of his own, pouring a generous helping of aged scotch into the tumbler. It, and a matching bowl of sugar cubes, are eased towards the edge of the counter with a grind of glass on wood. It sounds of distant thunder. Not unlike a wary animal—though lacking such a creature's instincts— Carlos inches towards the heart of the storm, thirsty for all that might await him there. Footstep by footstep, he creeps. Hesitates. Presses on. The Marquis, with the patience of one acquainted with many cats, makes no move to rush him. Rather, he is content to wait until the chary Scientist settles atop a lacquered stool of his own accord, reaffixing his expectant expression and complementary stare. It is prompt enough.

"It had been my intention," Mister Palmer then continues, wasting no more time in alighting upon an adjacent seat, "to bring you here immediately upon our, ah, first introduction, and to more fully explain the situation from the start. However—" he pauses, heaving a sigh for the sake of dramatics—, "a certain, apprehensive Earl expressed concern over his hefting a cataleptic man through the streets of greater London, claiming that his doing so might merit us unwanted attention. Being followed is _such_ a bother. At the time, I had been inconsolable in my disappointment—I could not stand to imagine your bafflement over all you had suffered! That said, in retrospect, I whole-heartedly acknowledge that my dear Scout's reasoning was sound indeed. I might even add that waking in an unknown chamber deep beneath the Earth and surrounded by strangers would hardly have been good for your poor nerves. And those poor nerves had rather been through enough that day, I suspect."

His host nods to himself, simpering in understanding, as a lithe hand slips between the silky layers of his suit. Some small part of Carlos impulsively tenses—two sugar cubes poised above his drink—but having noticed no dubious bulges or suggestive dangers upon the Marquis' person, forces himself back to calm. It's just as well that he does; Mister Palmer does nothing more suspicious that extract a flat, silver case, stamped with some other mysterious sigil and festooned with a series of small jewels. It's ostentatious, but harmless. From its depths, he taps out a slender cigarette, wrapped in a textured, sallow parchment.

"Of course, I suppose it hardly matters now, one way or another," the Marquis says, perching the fag between gloved knuckles with the agility of a man working on years of routine. He pays its temptation no more thought. Instead, with one finger (and with great ceremony), he turns to tracing the rim of his goblet, gazing deep within its pool. He circles its edge once, twice. On the third go-around, an eerie song wobbles up from its cool depths, possessed of the same crystalline qualities as the music of an armonica. The single pitch lingers, ethereal, its note seeming to double as one of invitation. Permission garnered, Cecil takes that same finger—his middle— and dips it, shallowly, into the center of the cup. He then streaks the gathered moisture across the plump of his bottom lip, leaving it glossy with wetness. Only after completing this unfathomable task does he ignite the tip of the cigarette on the flame of a decorative candle, filling the room with the unmistakable scent of clove. Carlos, having forgone the task of garnishing his drink in favor of nervously crunching on a cube, feels strangely as if he's observed a religious invocation. "Just as sweet Dana, and _Steve Carlsberg_, hardly matter in this moment. We both know that you did not venture all of this way to ask me of them… Though what final enticement served to bring you here I would never be so impudent as to assume."

The tip of the cigarette smolders. Cecil's eyes seem to do the same: pastel flecks of color catching light and mirroring it, like dull rainbows or metallic shavings or ember stars. The Baron swallows thickly, sandy granules of sugar clawing his throat raw. It hurts. His jaw falls open from the ache of it, and— before he can snap it back shut— he hears a soft sound slip down the slide of his tongue. "What…?"

"Hm?" The Marquis, an elbow on the table and fingers light against his cheek, regards his guest with suppressed amusement as he takes a steady drag. The end of the rollup flares. Heavy lashes flutter. Fag-filled hand lowering a fraction, Cecil tilts his head back, exposing the pale camber of his smooth throat; his porcelain skin is marred by the faint impression of webbed blue veins, traversing in brambling patterns beneath his flesh and giving the distinct impression of cracking bone china. He puckers loosely, and Carlos watches, intrigued, as a perfumed band of smoke rises from the ring of his mouth, expanding considerably as it floats towards the ceiling. It lingers for an instant, thinning, gray and wispy as the spent clouds of a dispersing gale… "Have you a question, Sir Scientist? Please, proceed. I can hardly give you the answers you seek if you do not bother to ask."

"I…" Carlos hesitates, shifts. He does have a question. He has _many_. He wants to know the reason for Mister Palmer's earlier behavior—how he could live with himself after abandoning the corpse of a child in an alleyway, how he could so easily forget to inquire about the condition of the piteous, traumatized John. He wants to know why the Marquis and his Scout friend had left the Baron to deal with Scotland Yard alone, and if they realized how incredibly devious that made both of them appear, even if the Sheriff didn't bat an eyelash at their mention. He wants to know—no, he should _demand_ to know all of these things, and more. He should demand them angrily, or with evident disgust. Maybe both. Instead, Carlos glances around like a nervous youngster, seemingly seeking out fortitude he'd earlier misplaced. Unsurprisingly, he fails to find a thing he's not sure he ever had. He does, however, rediscover the smoke ring. Though diluted with clearer air, it has grown heavy on particles unseen; like a pebble in a mire, it's starting to sink slowly, slowly down… And as it settles, so does he. "Well. I know it is an unforgivable offence to draw attention to the deformities and imperfections of a man, so I pray you will forgive me—or, at least, consider answering this query a fair exchange for earlier offenses done to my own body. But, I… My Lord—"

"Cecil. Cecil Palmer."

"Mister Palmer, then. Sir, your eyes. What malady or affliction has affected your eyes?"

"My eyes?" Ingenuous, childlike, and more than a tad bemused, Cecil touches the tips of his thin fingers to the cradle of his cheek bone, the flat of his temple. He looks even younger in his innocuous confusion. "Oh, that's a very dull subject indeed. Still, I will answer, as promised ," he laments, visibly embarrassed. He tips his head, hiding behind the hoods of his lids. But, with a sigh, he perseveres: "As I have aged, I have been made the helpless victim of something akin to nearsightedness. It is a most tedious misfortune, as I was reminded upon our meeting, when I fear I nearly lost these very spectacles! But to wear them is the price I must pay if I wish to see things on my own. And I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I have not yet been beset by a more disastrous malady."

Cecil shakes his head, clinging possessively to the temple of his glasses. Carlos, for his part, gawps openly at his host, momentarily befuddled. The smoke ring, nearing invisibility, has reached their bent waists: the hungry maw of its circumference swallowing both men whole as it steadily descends. When it passes the loops of his belt, the Scientist realizes the misunderstanding.

"O- oh! No. No, Mister Palmer."

"_Cecil_."

"_Mister Palmer_. I am afraid my question lacked clarity. My enquiry was not in reference to your spectacles. I meant— I rather meant your irises. Your _eyes_. Tell me about your _eyes_," the Baron insists, twisting an inch in his seat to better observe his host. His feet catch on the final tendrils of the clove-scented haze; the band dissolves fully.

And in that same instant, Cecil's downcast gaze flicks up: those very eyes that Carlos has asked after piercing him with a meaningful stare through the lacy fan of heavy lashes.

"They are windows to my soul."

The Baron's mouth goes dry. The Marquis' twists into a roguish grin. As the whole of his demeanor shifts, Mister Palmer's body does the same, gaining speed and fluidity. He nimbly rights his fag, pinching it with the lightness and dexterity of a miniature baton, before settling the end which had touched his lips against a burnished ashtray, balancing it expertly; it is a makeshift candle now, enlivened with incense and left to burn. Phantoms of its coal-red gleam spark in the round of the polished plate, though the coiling vines of its aromatic vapors lack enough presence to manifest in the same way. Deftly, Cecil pushes the platter exactly between them, then angles himself to regard Carlos with the full of his attention.

"Now we begin in earnest," the Marquis decrees, one knee slipping over the other as the Scientist, reeling dumbly, tries to follow whatever had just happened. The subsequent question does little to help steady him. "My dear esteemed Carlos, wise and learned, what do you know of waterloo teeth?"

The Baron starts. Thinks to protest. Realizes he's not quite sure what, exactly, he would protest about. Considers. Then, finally, and for want of any better way to respond, simply offers an answer. "I have heard the term," he confesses, shrugging with the absence of one who has nearly given up on fighting the current of events unfolding around him, and instead simply succumbing to its flow, "but I am primarily a man of Science. The grand majority of my concentration remains focused upon my work and my chosen field of study. I have little knowledge of dentistry, nor of its practices."

"Understandable." Cecil hums, building the slats of his fingers into a bridge for his chin. "The mind is such a terrible thing to waste, or to clutter with unnecessary minutiae. However, following the remainder of this conversation will require, at least, a general awareness of the subject. If I may be so bold as to educate you," he adds with a playful slyness, the cloying cadence of his voice as rich as melted chocolate in the Baron's ears. Without thinking, Carlos pops another sugar cube into his mouth, suckling hard enough to hollow his cheeks. It's assent enough. And so, as if weaving the most enchanting of stories, Mister Palmer begins, "The British Empire—may the sun never set upon it, though it's visible so rarely these days who can say it hasn't already?— is, if nothing else, industrious. Innovative. The lives of the Queen and her citizens have been made quite comfortable as a result of this inventive mindset, and these comforts are enjoyed by far more people now than they ever have been in the past. Yet, while countless technological advances have gone far in illuminating the dark lives of the masses, the brightest lights always cast the blackest shadows."

The Marquis, stare slanting towards the Scientist, flashes another wiry smile behind the bend of his hands. Carlos bites his lip under the weight of it, only to notice that everything now tastes powerfully of clove. Pungently of clove. Intoxicatingly of clove, but beneath its piquant spice, there lies the hint of something more—something ancient and lingering, faint and forgotten—parsley and sage. Rosemary, thyme. Sugar, scotch, air. It's inebriating…

"One of the more popular developments in this era has been its many treats. Existence is such a _bitter_ thing… Mankind can hardly be blamed for developing a dreadful sweet tooth. Regrettably, though sweetness might be craved, teeth do not hold up well against so much caramel and toffee. With increasing regularity, people are failing to employ proper oral hygiene, and are losing their teeth very early to corrosion. To counteract this problem, the dentists of our fair nation have tried to utilize substitutes crafted from ivory, bone, and the teeth of other animals. Unfortunately, these alternatives have all proved painful, as well as highly susceptible to further decomposition upon use. In a few months' time, the wearer will again find themselves with a mouth full of rot." The Marquis allows himself a subtle shiver, clicking his own teeth twice. The pearl of his incisors gleam as he continues to speak. "The ultimate solution was inevitable, if distasteful. Grave robbers and those like them started to—and still do— hunt human teeth, stealing them from the mouths of cadavers and fallen soldiers. Well. Waste not, want not, I suppose. It is true that the dead have very little use for anything at all. The living, on the other hand …"

"The living?"

"Megan Wallaby," Mister Palmer answers, tone clipped and shoulders tense. The leather of his half gloves groan as their shape is contorted by tensing fingers, though his expression remains neutral. "You met her, if briefly, the other day. Surely you remember. She no doubt made quite the impression, what with the peg in her eye."

Carlos surely does remember. He bites the inside of his cheeks to keep from responding with an undignified gag.

"She, and those other victims like her," the Marquis persists, almost callously impassive, "had their teeth and tongue removed _before_ their untimely deaths. Whether this indicates that our culprit is an impatient tooth robber who has chosen to escalate his hunt, or we are instead dealing with some madman with an agenda yet unknown, I am afraid I cannot say. It does not matter, regardless, for I speak to very few. The great majority of Londoners know only what the papers tell them, and the papers tell them this: those who eat sweets risk losing their teeth, now even before decay sets in."

The Baron rolls these revealed truths—and those unspoken, but implied—around and around in the chamber of his head. They buzz, he finds. They skitter and stretch, like insects beneath tree bark. Creaking, the contemplations branch outward into countless random offshoots, into murmuring forests tipped with clove-scented fumes. Anything conclusive or certain has gone up in flames; all is smoke, vine-like and tangled. Impossible to handle, to hold. Still, he plaits what conclusion he can from wisps of revelation.

"So knowing this to be your prerogative, that chasing criminals is your charge," Carlos summarizes, watching condensation bead, bloat, and slip down his glass in silent sobs. Further teardrops rise in oozing clusters; they give the illusion of osmosis. Perhaps all of this, too, is some illusion. _Smoke_, he thinks again. _Smoke and mirrors_… "Then in regards to you and your associates… Might I presume that you work with Scotland Yard and the Sheriff, aiding their cause to help Her Majesty's subjects sleep easier in their beds?"

Cecil snorts. Actually _snorts_, despite the vulgarity of such an utterance. There is simply no other term for a sound with such a biting undercurrent of depreciation, and drollness, and mirth. "I am not so altruistic, I am afraid," he corrects wryly, a subtle smirk playing upon the quirk of his lips. Behind the sheen of his spectacles, his lashes remain feathered and low; he is watching the fag vomit ash in neat, concentric circles. More rings. "Had I not been personally queried by an acquaintance of mine, I may have overlooked this case entirely. But his company, Funtom, deals with confectioneries, and as one of the more notable brands, it has been suffering the brunt of recent bad publicity. He is a colleague who has shown me much kindness in the past, so I felt it only fair to offer him assistance in this matter. His time is rather pressed, and I have a surplus."

The Baron blinks, remembering the man. The man and his butler, and the familiar crest they wore. That'd been— he knew he'd seen that emblem. It was everywhere in the shops. Well, that was one mystery solved, though the larger one remains… Not just remains, but has again turned to observe his guest more watchfully. Prompting, waiting.

"You are not some sort of police, then," Carlos frowns, the paraphrase redundant but helpful. He chews on his thoughts, on his tongue. On another gritty cube he'd intended for his drink. "Nor, from what I gather, are your services for hire. Not exactly."

"Not exactly," Cecil agrees, amusement sparkling like cold fire. Upon his smallest finger, the rosy ring glimmers with a lustrous sheen. It winks in the light, nearly cheeky. The Scientist just barely resists tugging at his hair in frustration.

"Then… What _are_ you?"

_I suppose you'll just have to wake up and find out._

A jolt. He judders. The reply resonates, silken and sonorous, from somewhere deep within Carlos' head: behind, before, and inside of his ears. Like a dream, or the toll of a bell—too distant to see, but close enough for the rich timbre of every saccharine syllable to thrum through his limbs and resound along his veins in static vibrations. Static and syrup. He feels sticky. Stuck. "_I beg your pardon?_" the Baron gasps, breathless, shifting against the snaring sensation. "What did you—?"

The Marquis, for his part, lifts a brow. Guileless, he has his head cocked in confusion over whatever spectacle Carlos had just provided, pale lips parted but unmoving. He looks worried. No— not worried. Concerned. Carlos wonders, wildly, if his host had spoken at all. Maybe not.

But he speaks then, and that seems a wiser thing to focus on.

"I am a man like you, good Sir Scientist," Mister Palmer murmurs, reaching to his belt to unhook a velvet pouch. The shape of it seems somehow familiar, as do its extracted contents: a deck of gaudy, oblong flats, their edges frayed from time and touch. Idly, Cecil cuts them, shuffles. Once, once more, and again. His every movement is in triplicates; it is not surprising when he lays down three cards. Then three more. Then another three, until the bar before them is a kaleidoscopic grid, colors swirling idly through the haze of a nursed headache. "A man with a keen interest in what others might consider the occult, or paranormal. The difference between us lies at the border of reality: where the theoretical ends and the tangible begins."

To say that the Scientist balks would be an understatement. "You expect me to believe that your trade is _monster hunting_?"

"Oh, no! No, of course not!" the Marquis ripostes, with some vim and with some vigor. Mostly though, with the hurt of a man suffering an unwarranted accusation. "No, I don't _expect _you to do anything. Anything at all. That would be outrageously presumptuous, which I have been trying ever so hard not to be. You have a right to believe whatever you wish… Though the truth of the matter, I am afraid, will remain the same, regardless. And the truth of the matter is that, yes, I am what one might call a 'monster hunter.' And this," he decrees, with a wave at the cards, "is what I know of my current prey."

Carlos has no response to this. In his lap, his fingers knot. In his face, his eyes are blank. Cecil, with the gesticulated grandeur of one directing the formalist of introductions, flicks willowy fingers over the latticework of cards, slicing the air and splitting the spread into horizontal thirds. "Past, present, future," he explains, straightforward without being blunt. A palm is place atop the bottom row, furthest to the right. "When time is broken for you, all is clear. We begin, as we pretend all things do, in the annals of history."

The Baron's fermenting cynicism sours the air like so much serpentine smoke. "Sir!" He barks, the term of esteem viciously undercut by a humorless laugh. Breathy and scandalized, the exhalation teeters on the edge of becoming a strangled bay. "_Surely_ you do not believe that you can—"

The hand shifts. Smooth to the point of obscenity, the lowermost row of flats vanish beneath the sweep of his palm… And in that same flowing movement, reappear upon their backs: lackluster eyes gazing at the ceiling, expressions frozen beneath invisible pins. Their bottoms—one of which lingers at the top—are branded by numbers and names. Three of Pentacles, The Emperor, Nine of Pentacles_. _The last is reversed; the first lingers by Carlos' elbow, its figures shrouded in robes as much as in mystery. In the center, a wizened king in stately umber balances the spectacle, noble beneath the burden of Mister Palmer's regard. The Marquis stares upon it, focused, dazed and distant but incredibly _present_. It is important. It is the core of everything.

"London is industrious. Innovative. That much I have already acknowledged," Cecil slowly intones, in a drawl that reaches deeper than bones, deeper than sleep. It permeates, melding with marrow and trance-induced dreams; the ringing returns, vibrating at the base of Carlos' skull. The buzz of it could rattle teeth, now. He is befuddled. Maybe that is why he listens. "But industry and innovation come with a price, and it is not always paid through righteous means. Companies rise, then fall. Fall, then rise. Rise, and keep rising—fueled by ambitions and aided by cunning. Hard work is rewarded, and empires are built on the misfortunes of others."

The hand gestures a second time, and the middle line is revealed. A Page of Pentacles, guarded on either side by upturned, raining swords—three and five for an unlucky eight. As many seconds pass as the Marquis' pinkie twitches, once. Carlos wets his lips, thinking again of electricity: his thesis, Dana's tourmaline, half-dead corpses. Lightening that sparks in the brain, then traverses down the heat-white conductors of sinuous digits.

"One of these cornerstones has been particularly luckless. A hardworking individual, once honorable but now tainted. Their life interfered with. Outsider meddling has exacerbated preexisting disorders, calling hidden conditions to the surface. Something within has snapped, allowing paranoia and spite to stain their soul."

Mister Palmer respires, each inhalation measured and slow. More than the cards, Carlos watches the other's chest—the mechanical pump of it as air flows _in_ and words drop _out_. Heavy, significant: the mutated breaths tumble from his lips, clattering with an inexplicable physicality against tabletop and tarot. The lashes he'd once fluttered are now as still as carved ivory… but the eyes behind them flicker, just shy of imperceptibly, as the last of the cards are revealed.

Their images reflect in glazed eyes. A Hermit dances on its head; a Tower burns and Temperance waits. The Marquis returns to life as their pictures process, as his guest reads their names… though mostly for lack of being able to read anything off of his host's face.

"Council shall be refused, along with assistance," Cecil continues, much as a nacreous bead of sweat continues down the camber of his throat. It catches on the understated swell of his Adam's apple, glittering briefly before vanishing beneath his cravat. "Imprudent actions plant seeds of foolishness and reap thorns of consequence, which will blossom into labyrinths that one cannot escape by one's own power. There will be conflict, change, and sudden, violent losses. They will care not. They will be a rock. Obstinate. Yet, for every skip of a stone over water, there are ripples which affect even the most distant seas… So too will future actions incite far-reaching repercussions. A way of life overthrown, upheaved and transmogrified. Still… in the end, for the better, it seems. Not for our Page, I fear, but _someone_ will prove able to adapt, and this shift shall be solemnized by cooperation and combination." Cecil gingerly raps a nail atop this final card, chin resting against the pebbled folds of his knuckles. His eyes, for all of their pallor, seem deep in this moment… Like moonlit ponds that mystics of old would use for scrying. There are secrets beneath them, waiting to be discerned. There is a brightness to them, full and round. The amusement Carlos senses beneath their surface is disconcerting, tugging on his soul as the moon does the tide. "Oh, but it _is_ nice to foresee a happy ending, isn't it? Reporting doom and gloom becomes rather dreary, after a while."

With another blithe expression, the Marquis gathers the dealt cards in a single, winding motion: future to present to past. Whole again, he taps the deck to neatness and rips a thumb along its edge. It purrs like a happy kitten. Like something somehow _alive_. The Baron regards it all with mounting distaste.

"…to be frank, Mister Palmer," Carlos says a minute later, lip curling back in some dour mixture of frustration and offence, "your wit and resources are no more reliable than what meager clues have already been bumbled upon by Scotland Yard." He shakes his head, scoffing. The whole of this is absurd! Is he honestly expected to believe such a charade? Is he being mocked? Is this one grand joke— stacked cards and secret rooms to further tease the Scientist for his field? If so, the Marquis' time has been sorely wasted. Carlos' research is not based on belief in the strange; it is based on the belief that the strange can be explained. But, having grown tired of explaining this, he snaps instead: "If this exchange is to be taken at face value, it would appear that you think me a fool!"

"Hm." Mister Palmer considers this accusation, unperturbed by mounting ire. He stares, analyzes. Touches his nose with a finger. "No," he then decides—though what sort of decision he had deemed it necessary to make is beyond the Baron. Still, he announces with import, "No, not the Fool. "

"_No_?" Carlos jeers, pulling a face as he does so. "And yet you expect me to believe that you have _divined _these murders are being committed by… by some devil from Hell?"

"The origins of my current quarry have yet to be disclosed, though Hell is always a possibility."

"Oh, of _course_!" the Baron cries, arms in the air and tone as dry as desert sands. Dessert sands, even; irritation has him sampling another cube, plucked from the barren wastes of the lead crystal basin. "Lord above! Sir, I beg kindness from you. Pray, _why_, exactly, are you telling me all of this—this twaddle and poppycock?!"

"'Why'?"

Cecil pauses in his petting, fingers stagnant atop his tarot. His brow gains creases, gullies, and other shallow divots into which confusion has started to seep, flooding his features as he becomes aware of Carlos' displeasure. He cannot seem to fathom the source of it. Or, perhaps, it is Carlos' stupidity that Mister Palmer fails to understand, as he appears more anxious than he does apologetic. "I should have thought that plain. I weave these yarns for you because you have been made a part of this tangled web, my good Sir."

"_Really._" The Marquis had courted the boorish, so it strikes the Baron as only fair: he snorts, loud and crude. The withering _crack_ of it has his host straightening, visibly alarmed.

"You are," Cecil is prompt to press, the purse of his lips indicative of mounting disquiet. Perhaps he is troubled by his mischief not playing out as planned. Carlos has long since lost the energy to care, despite his station and status as a guest. He rolls his eyes, and does not bother to hide it. Relents his bolshiness not a whit, even when the Marquis' tone gains a hint of graveled exasperation. "You have been for some time, now. What force, my Lord, do you surmise first brought us together? Has been bringing us together, over and over, these past few days?"

"There was no 'force,'" Carlos quips. "Our meeting was coincidence, pure and simple. There is nothing more to this, or to us… Unless, that is, you care to confess to matters involving my dresser and ampoules of chemicals."

The Baron regards his host with an affected look of expectation; the other's returning stare is withering, if tinged in anemic shades of cherry.

"Indeed?" he then retorts, that one word laden with far more sarcasm than Carlos would have thought a man of Mister Palmer's pedigree capable of employing. It takes him aback, if unwillingly. "Do Scientists believe in coincidence? That the sun just randomly rises in the east? That _fancy_ has it setting in the west? That if I put sugar into water, happenstance sees it dissolve?"

"…not as you say, Sir. No," Carlos bites out, wincing. He does not mean to wince. He has endured far worse than the burrs of these rejoinders, even these past few days alone. But the response is automatic, body tensing as the prickled points burrow beneath his thickened skin. Curses and damnation on involuntary reactions… And a further pox upon the lolling satisfaction that unfurls over Cecil's lips.

"Neither do those of my trade," the Marquis vows, with a reverence better reserved for cosmic secrets. "Our meeting was not by chance, Carlos the Scientist. That you were there when I leapt from that building was not a product of fortune, but one of fate," he further assures, canting forward in emphasis. There is no hint of irony in this claim, despite the arguable hypocrisy of making it post-_fortunetelling_. Carlos decides not to point this out. Instead, he wearily asks:

"What are you trying to say, precisely?"

The utter lack of interest in the Baron's demand has Mister Palmer doing something that might charitably be called glaring. Or, less generously, pouting. He doesn't seem to appreciate his guest's lack of concern for ambiance or timing. The Scientist can't bring himself to feel much guilt over this; there is a reason he has never favored the theatre, nor those who frequent it. If Cecil is going to be melodramatic, Carlos will be insolent. And the Marquis, he knows, will inevitably cave to his requests for haste, discourteously made or no, because he is the host, and is thus required to do so.

The Scientist is not disappointed.

"It has been stalking you with the intention of taking all it wants," Cecil says a moment later. Brisk. Morose. Completely serious.

…well then. That is, if nothing else, very precise. Brusque even, the Baron must admit. His fingertip _pings_ against the rim of his glass, but he has no desire to consume any of its contents. This whole of this is mad enough without his being tipsy.

"You really do have lovely teeth," Mister Palmer adds, the compliment carrying some lightness, when Carlos makes no other move to respond. The Marquis appears, this time, sympathetic of the silence. Perhaps he assumes the Scientist's muteness stems from shock, or some need to mull over jarring news. The Baron allows him to indulge in that fantasy, along with whatever-the-hell-else his muddled mind has accepted as truth. There's nothing to be gained from arguing with a lunatic… "Some of the most impressive teeth in London. You need not try to deny it—" Carlos doesn't, at this point— "It is a fact. I began keeping tabs on such things when I accepted this case. Up 'til this moment, you had been spared the ill-fortune of Megan and those like her due to your sparse eating habits. In your scientific fervor, you frequently forget to break for healthful meals, much less for tea and cake. Your absent-mindedness—and your tendency to remain locked in the same room for days upon end—served to save you. _However_," Cecil sighs, with a soundless strum over the spine of his cards, "in the time between then and now, there has been some change in your demeanor… Some event which served as a catalyst to alter your appetite."

He knows he shouldn't react. He _knows_ that. But this omnipresent act—flaunting knowledge of Carlos' home and habits— is not only disturbing, but infuriatingly presumptuous. The Scientist bristles, belligerent, as he turns his back on better judgment and whips again towards his host.

"What are you—?" he begins, voice pitched in annoyance. But he doesn't even have time to finish the thought; Cecil is flicking meaningful eyes towards the dish at his elbow, and Carlos is compelled to follow that stare.

The sugar is gone. His scotch is still untouched.

"…Oh."

"You were not its primary prey, dear Carlos," the Marquis explains, using a tone that he can only guess is meant to convey comfort. It doesn't. "It resisted you. It was saving you. You should not have become the target. At least, not so abruptly. But something has changed that, and here we are."

As Cecil speaks, the notes of his voice warp weirdly —winding high, then swooping low; swinging near, then looping far, like some defective gramophone— in the camber of the other's ears. His ears. Ringing. Again. Still. Carlos tries to ignore it, along with the knotting of his insides: the molten, curdling contents of his stomach. These chills are no more than the sort one suffers at the end of any well-executed ghost tale… Adrenaline, surely, and nothing more. But…

"…that 'something,'" the Baron croaks, managing to sound at least mildly sardonic after a few good swallows, "is not the fault of 'fortune,' you say? Or some unhappy chance?"

"No," is Cecil's terse response. And Carlos, uncharacteristically, finds that he is beginning to miss the earlier pomp and production. It had made the whole of this much easier to disregard as idiocy.

"Might you tell me what it is, then…?"

The deck snaps. Strident. The flat which crowns the pile, the Baron notes at once, lacks the uniformity of its brethren: its gloss lost to natural oils and its colors to the sun, its corners frayed in ways that its mates have managed to avoid, albeit with varying degrees of success. Without any idea why, the Scientist realizes this detail sets off further bells in his noisy mind. This unseen card is noteworthy, but for no apparent reason. He wonders, deprecatingly, if it might hold the answer to his question.

If it does, he'll never know. Cecil takes that moment to return the tarot to its pouch, tucking it away upon his belt. It has served the purpose it was brought for. Now, Carlos suspects, the Marquis is trusting that he'll do the same. It is a hypothesis that holds.

"It is my hope that we can find out together," Mister Palmer is confessing, his attention shifting from the cards to the cigarette. It has burnt this whole while, with too much fervor and not enough wick. Its tendrils have weakened, its aroma flagged. Charred fragments of singed paper, blistered into brittle petals, quaver with a delicacy destined for destruction… Cecil speaks with a touch more speed than before, and twice as much earnestness. "The times are changing, my Lord. Even the night, which had once been the source of all imagination and fear, has been electronically illuminated. Spirituality is fast being subjugated by the art of Science, of which I understand depressingly little. This must be rectified. Those creatures still lurking in the darkness will no doubt evolve with the era, and it is necessary that I continue to do the same."

The Marquis' hands are folded, primly, atop the mount of his knee. His feet do not bounce; his fingers do not twitch. Yet there is a suppressed energy within him, an apprehension that goes beyond jitters… Carlos catches some hint of it within the otherworldly bands of his irises. Those concentric circles reflect the rings of cinders in the tray; eyes and ash shimmer in ways unnatural to their ilk. _Statues set with gemstone eyes, _he mulls, _chipped away by time._

Then he shakes himself— once, but sharply— wondering pithily what hallucinogen had been woven into that fag to make him prone to such rhapsodic waxing. He bats its heady belches from his nose, then surmises, "You propose a partnership."

"At the very least," the other agrees, curt, before relenting to repressed desire: allowing some former softness to bleed through the chinks of his somber façade. "Though, naturally," he amends with what might be shyness, "a friendship would be preferred."

Naturally. "But this is sheer folly! Mister Palmer, you must _see _that," Carlos says, with a desperation he cannot quite account for. Perhaps that brainless buzzing had sheltered the sensation until it'd matured, ready to burst free from a cocoon of incredulity. Frantic, almost fearful, the feeling scrabbles through the Baron's veins on a hundred thousand insect legs, scritching and scratching and congesting his throat. He coughs around the sore of it, around the tickle and the ache. Around wings spread wide, beating like his heart. "You must _understand_ that. You simply _must! _What you claim is based upon your own skewed views and nurtured delusions, not any universal truth. To be candid, Sir, you insult me with your conduct, as well as your suggestions. To lure me here, then try to bamboozle me… As you have clearly failed to take so much as a cursory _glance_ at the work you claim to venerate, allow me to inform you that I have devoted my _life_ to finding the fact within the fiction of such codswallop! To eradicate the backwater thinking that comes from believing in such stories!" Fright is underscored by anger, and anger by a fist. It connects with the table with enough force to jar the cutlery, as well as the breakable bones hidden beneath pliant flesh. Everything—more now than before—_throbs._

But Cecil is unflappable. Cecil is undeterred. Cecil is also notably unimpressed, reacting to the tantrum with no more than a blink. A single, measured movement.

Deliberate. Leisurely.

"Ah, that is the kindness of stories, is it not?" he then croons, wistful in a way that rather makes Carlos want to throttle him. Had he been listening at all…? Had anything he'd said breached the Marquis' impenetrable head?! Every interaction, every encounter, every word exchanged and blow dealt roils into tight strips of memory in Carlos' gut, knotting tighter and tighter— _tighter_ and _tighter_—, and it's all the Baron can do to keep from beating his host with that _damn sugar dish_— "If you do not like them, you do not have to believe in them."

A sigh: understated, puffed, and oddly angled. Like a gentle breeze over the seastrand, it sends clouds of fine sand into the air. Crumbles of ash. The cigarette is now a stump, jostled even by the mildest disturbance; Carlos—his hand having inched half-way to the bowl— stutters around a lungful of clove, steely plumes and spice. Motes catch on his tongue, cling to his suit. He recognizes that, by all accounts, this should serve to further rile him… But instead, he finds the piquant perfume calms something within, though he's not sure he wants it to.

Then Cecil speaks, and he's not sure of anything he wants at all.

"Stories allow us to pretend—if only for a little while—that everything is all right. Even when things are very much _not_."

Something resonates, too far below to be felt. The Marquis smiles like the dawning sun. Carlos feels like an insomniac, bruised eyes and all.

"…it grows late. I should like to return home, now," he finally manages, though in little less than a whisper. With the remainder of his energy, the Baron pushes away both chair and tumbler, though he does depend on the bar to hold what weight his knees refuse to bear. He just… he needs a minute. One minute to recalibrate, to recollect. It's his concussion, that's all. It has him addled.

Fortunately, Carlos finds he has been afforded some small mercies, despite his recent string of poor luck. His obvious failings notwithstanding, Cecil does play the role of gentleman quite well; he makes no move to protest or resist when his guest totters to a stand, nor attempts to press previous conversation. Rather, he seems nearly as eager to see the Baron gone as the Baron is to be gone.

"Of course, of course," he assures kindly, sweeping from his own seat with an enviable grace. He does not move to touch his cup, as Carlos had, but does make a point of stubbing out the cigarette. Its lingering tang evaporates in less than an instant; the air is left cold and sterile once more. Morbid and motionless. Appropriate, really, for a room of dead butterflies. "Our remaining time together would've been short, regardless. Earl will no doubt be returning soon, and he is ever so strict about my bedtime."

This is a jest. Probably. Or probably not. Either way, Mister Palmer offers a lopsided grin, as well as a hand. Carlos is compelled to feel no fondness for the former, but etiquette insists that he grasp the latter. Etiquette further advocates that he admire, if indistinctly, that hand's slimness and strength, the coolness of dark leather and the rigid cog of that red jasper ring. Etiquette _suggests_ that the Baron let go after a two brisk shakes, but he finds it difficult to slacken his grip… and Cecil isn't the sort to stand on such ceremony, anyway. Instead, he evens out his smile, which has something odd happening to Carlos' belly; they strain to find an equilibrium that may or may not exist.

"Please, do consider my offer. It has been extended with the best of intentions."

The Baron grunts. It is hardly the least dignified thing he's done tonight, so he tries not to dwell on its impoliteness. His host hardly seems to mind. Rather, the Marquis seems willing to bear almost anything, provided it keeps their fingers twined. Carlos wonders— should he find any energy to spare— if he might not employ it towards analyzing this man's obvious and unfounded affections for him. They seem very… genuine. Which, considering the brevity of their acquaintanceship, makes them all the more unsettling.

"Let us meet again, sweet Carlos, and so very soon," Cecil simpers gaily over the chatter of the other's cogitations. He is jocular, and amiable, and charming once more, though in a manner that Carlos suddenly senses is strangely shallow. Superficial, somehow. At first, he writes it off as a consequence of Mister Palmer's eyes: that their eerie pallor simply makes it difficult to discern emotions that would reflect with more clarity in darker depths. But… maybe not. No, definitely not, because when he tries, Carlos can glean incomprehensible amounts fondness seeping through the fibrous filaments of that opalescent gaze. It stands to follow, then, that if the Marquis' emotive hollowness is not the result of a physical handicap, or an inability to feel anything at all, it must be an intentional front. A guise of porcelain that hides a truer self within: some shadow personality accessible only on bar stools, curtained by smoke. A curtain since lifted. Now, Mister Palmer hides himself beneath loquaciousness, as he had before. "Might you consider honoring me with your presence for elevens? In my garden, perhaps, when the weather has turned. After which, should you desire," he tacks on in a tease, "I can elucidate the secrets of your future and fortune from the dregs of your tea."

They have reached the door now, and Cecil has pulled it open with one hand. Other hands are still locked, neither shaking nor grasping. Simply holding. Close together, polar opposites, possessed by a magnetism that has nothing and everything to do with Science. With magic. With lodestones turned into jewelry and caught within compatible magnetic fields, opposites attracting and polarities inversed. Carlos cannot remember the last time he'd felt so much, so fast, and been left with so little. He is wrung out. He needs space. He needs sleep.

He needs to pull away. To escape this. Him. Whatever 'this' and 'him' are. Still, the Baron feels compelled to blow out his cheeks and give gentle correction one last try. "While I appreciate the offer, I do not believe in such tricks," he reminds, back-stepping over the jamb. Cecil does not follow. Their hands part, but their fingertips linger. "I am a Scientist."

"Hm." The Marquis hums, not for the first time, as he gives Carlos another long, pensive appraisal. Pins and needles wedge between nerve endings, hinges, tendons—wherever that drifting gaze lands. "No, you're not quite that, either," Cecil then decides, bubbly with a decisiveness that leaves no room for protest or debate. Which is just as well, really, seeing as Carlos cannot find the strength to protest or debate anything any longer. Or to deal with Mister Palmer, for that matter. He can only gawk, utterly boggled. Numbed. This man is… unbelievable. Entirely off his head.

This in mind, the Baron does not lament the loss when his host finally pulls from him completely— bracing his gloved hands against the sturdy frame of the door. His grip falls upon its corners, arms as long and pale as silken threads; his legs weave lower webs as he leans against broad trim work, hip jaunty and head cocked. The blooming, bloody spider and a fly upon the wall. Observer and observed, vice and vice versa.

"You are the Magician, I suspect. Ill-dignified," the Marquis confidently declares, with a nauseating sweetness that lumps in Carlos' throat. One sugar cube too many, the treats miscounted in a moment when one and one did not equate to two. "But you may yet reverse yourself, my dear."

Eleven teeth flash in the Cheshire's lengthy leer. The crescent of it hovers, as burnished as a sickle. Beneath its silvery shine, Carlos again remembers old rhymes and felines: Curiosity kills the cat, but satisfaction brings it back, reanimating its decaying corpse with an adrenaline akin to the electricity that the Baron had suggested utilizing in one of his more recent papers. Perhaps that is to blame for the crackling that lingers in the air. Beneath his skin. Atop his palm.

There is an undead cat before Carlos. It is satisfied. It is impish. It is _wicked_.

It is lost behind the door.

**XXX**

Clove, as an herb, is used both for protection and exorcism. (As well as love and money spells.)


	3. III

**Disclaimer: **Good night, Nope Vale, good night.

**Author's Note: **I am out of clever things to say. But hey! Have chapter three in exchange for nonexistent wit. As usual, I sent a tumultuous tidal wave of love and gratitude to Dangersocks for all of her help as a friend, beta, and partner-in-crime.

**Warnings: **Oh, you know. Boys love and shiny things. Same old, same old. Also, references events in Dangersock's own Resurrection Lily story, "Fortune Favors I," which if you haven't yet read, _WHY_. GO READ IT. OH MY GOD. Keep an eye out for gratuitous "Alice in Wonderland" quotes .

**XXX**

**A Taste of Something**

**X**

_III_

"But he would feed you with the finest of wheat, and with honey from the rock I would satisfy you."

-Psalm 81:16

**XXX**

"You are the only one to show me kindness."

"Oh?"

The young boy nods once in wordless confirmation, the coarse of his dark hair hissing against marble-white linens. The motion of it rumples the fabric, upsetting the opulent spread. He does not care. It does not matter. He does not look. His lashes are lowered, yet he knows the layout well. To his left, there will be cakes: pink and bite-sized and stacked in tiers, their silver-sugar beads glittering like precarious dew atop iced florets. To his right, there will be cups: glazed Wedgewood that glints wanly in an unseen sun, bleached bone decorated with gilt, Indian jasmine, and spiraled oleander. Between the courses of the bountiful teatime banquet, there no doubt rises a game board: tiles of tourmaline and opal framed by stately slats of lacquered wood. Scattered atop its glossy surface, as well as around the child's lowered head, bunches of anemone have been strewn, their wiry stems crisscrossed into mazes. They shiver from the breath that wheezes out of his crushed nose. Crepe paper petals— like the torn remnants of some paper crown— blot in his locks and atop the crisp coverlet, orange and snow and amethyst and mauve.

And red. There are splotches of red. Liquid-ruby pearls that splatter into convolvulus, the bubbled bulbs becoming blossoms with fibrously frayed edges… Woven threadwork suckles scarlet into stringy veins as seed-drops are soaked up by creamy cloth, germinate, and mature into flowerbeds.

"You are," he then rasps, in a voice thick with coagulated tears. It seems an odd place for tears, he thinks, a pool in his throat… But that is where they hide. All of them, clotting and glutinous; they slosh about in his gullet. He swallows against them, tasting helenium and harebell. He shifts his head, and lifts the curtains of his lids just enough to glance down the table, seeking out his host around the lavish feast. His navy eyes are clear. Dry. Even if everything else, inside and out, is so, so wet. "Mother… she speaks to me only in harsh prophesies, now. My brother screeches, strikes me. Who knows where the others have gone? And Grandfather…"

Across the way, features poised atop a spire of petite hands, a second boy watches: peels of honey clover steam weaving around and through his fingers, curling the tips of his own russet hair. He is still and observant, with a statuesque poise reminiscent of the angels carved into the façades of antiqued cathedrals. Or of the gargoyles, just as haunting, with impossibly pliant mouths. For now, though, that mouth is closed: lips long and touching lightly. The other need not speak to be understood. He nods, prompting. Empathetic. Beneath the grassy fringe of his bangs, his eyes are an endless royal blue: twin blooms of double aster, the color of the tears that his companion does not shed.

The boy sucks down a breath; the reservoir in his gorge gurgles. He feels like he is drowning. His back is soaked, and he quivers at its chill. Or so he tells himself. "…they are cruel," he then whispers into the whiteness, blunted nails grinding moons into the inverse sky of the tablecloth. Spoons and sprinkles twinkle like stars. "My family. I do not understand. Are all families like this? They do not allow me out, nor allow me to be seen by others. They used to spare me glances, perhaps a word or two, but now… I find I am undeserving of even those scraps. They've locked me up, taken me from home. They used to love me, I'm sure they did. But now, they only— _oh!_"

He gasps, anguished, the sharp of the sound dissevering the remainder of his thoughts. Slender fingers scrabble, skittering with the meditated hysteria of insect legs, to grip and claw and _pull _at the fabric covering his shoulders. He whines; he whimpers. The whole of his body bows against the agony, heavy as the belled blossoms of fritillary that are helixing up his tensing thighs. Their checkered patterns match the canvas of his shirt: macabre smears of magenta over tarnished ivory.

A long moment passes. Presently, his hands—tacky with blood, yellow with pollen— are urged from their perch upon his forearms, and placed with dainty care atop his lap. The boy has no control over this. Any of this. His limbs are lifted, shifted, and folded by helpful vines of dog rose: heart-shaped petals dropping like little love notes upon his shuddering knees. Offshoots crackle, creaking as they grow. Expand. Unfurl in twirls of rubbery cerise, their leaves twining over the trellis of his torso. Like bonds and bracelets, another branch slithers over the protuberances of his wrists, his spine, feeling out the tumors of his vertebrate. The taut of his tendons. The dips of his scars. And as those limber tubers cast nets over exposed nerve endings, it occurs to the child that the plant's touch should cause him untold levels of pain… But no. They are gentle in their treatment of his body. In their care, he sits with dignity. Poise. He is regarded with no such respect anywhere but here.

"…why, then?" he demands once more, barely audible over the rustle of retreating rhizomes. They wilt away, unneeded. Unnoticed. The not-quite-twin has caught his double's eyes, and nothing else seems quite so important as that. "Why are you so kind to me?"

The other considers this query, touching his chin and looking to the west. Sans the rich purple stone set at the camber of his throat, the two have been dressed in identical finery, down to the copper stains and stench of brine. He hums. The brooch vibrates faintly, as if some living thing: a crystal chrysalis, warping and resplendent in the light.

"Well," the latter boy finally says, in a voice too rich to belong to a child. And he is not a child: neither are. They are thirteen, pale and slender and lanky, their booted toes swiping at the floor like pendulums. Time marches to that metronome. Foxglove blossoms to that beat. Straight stalks and lengthening bones groan loudly as they stretch, shoulders readjusting for added comfort. Bearded crepis susurrates down angled curves, fragrant petals rusting (burgundy to oxidized gold) before flaking off of his foppery. Off of _their_ foppery. The speaker dusts the mess away with an elegant brush of his hands, leaving the petals to pile at their feet. Then, with equal care, he decides, "If I am compelled to give a reason, then I suppose it is because I love you, Young Master. That, and I rather enjoy our games. You are an exquisite playmate, but you would hardly feel compelled to play with me if I failed to treat you well. Now then… Where were we?"

Beaming, beatific, the brooched boy gestures towards the game set proudly before them, at its patterned face and disseminated tokens. There had been nothing there before. No pieces, no parts. But this world is fertile, allowing for many things to grow from the ether. The mirrored pair gaze upon their stone soldiers, simultaneously familiar and foreign; the chess set stares back, polished and waiting. A round is already underway. Carnage here, pebbled rock there; a dark queen has been upended, lost to her player—replaced by a rook well protected by pawns. A bishop lingers near an unmarked median, kitty-corner from another of its kind, but not of its race. It is amongst sparse company. For while the white military has not lost many, neither had it started with many. Its army is incomplete; It lacks basic troops while the teenager commands scores of ebony soldiers. It is not fair.

The black King knows he will still lose.

"You performed splendidly, last time," his opponent is complimenting in a coo, an earthworm smile wriggling beneath the scalpel of his fingers. Ruddy, segmented; it squirms as it's dissected. He cocks his head, the fine fringe of his ash-blonde hair tickling his temple and high-boned cheeks. The locks—like the creature itself— are wild, yet refined: plumy bunches swaying about like so much luxuriant tarragon, pushing through his roots and sprouting from his skull. Their party smells sweetly of fresh-turned soil, springtime gardens and cemeteries. "I sincerely admire your tenacity, your wit. Against any other, you might call yourself a genius."

The teenager parses meaning as his companion parses their progress. Mismatched kings stand at attention on opposing squares, their bodies chained and bases melded to the flat of the board. The one without jewelry flicks at his symbolic self—bound in starry catchfly, onyx in color and uncharacteristically barbed—but the token does not tip. Does not budge. He had known that it would not, and so it is not a gesture of surrender. Not really. But then, he knows with just as much certainty that it would've hardly mattered if it had been. He wants to play. He must play. He has no choice, his hands and throat festooned in tissue garlands of peach blossoms. Even still…

"Against any other," he slowly agrees, reaching languidly for one of his whittled talismans, "but never against you. It hardly seems worth our time to play anymore. Not when we both know I shall lose."

The obsidian knight scrapes its way over opal, rasps sinisterly atop tourmaline. With disinterest, but also purpose, it is planted cautiously between the chained chessmen; behind it, the black King and its player, across the way, the white King and his ornamented competitor. Jelly-pale tremella oozes from the elaborate stand upon which that knight poses, forming labyrinthine hedges of coral: sticky and snaring and semi-translucent. The extra defense is impressive, but redundant. There are none who might face the token, for it is the only one of its kind on the board.

That makes it all the more precious.

His fingers linger, pressing prints into the piece's whittled head. A stamp of individuality, of possession, applied with pressure whilst under pressure. He can feel that pressure. _Feel _it, reflected back upon himself in gelatinous undulations and buckling membranes. His right eye throbs, its surface stinging in Lichtenberg figures. There is a pulse, then a _chink_. A clatter. A tinkle, like that of porcelain cups upon saucers. When the other glances up, the iris of his right eye has been irreparably cracked: sapphire shards sinking beneath a mire of iridescent gray. He—no, no not a '_he_,' not a _male_, not a _man_— the _thing_, the _It,_ grins again, the abyss beyond Its stalactite teeth too murky to be anything other than void.

"Oh, but the game has yet to begin, Young Master!" It purrs, simpering sweet. Its words flow like water, nurturing. Necessary. They rain, they rise: rhododendron and snakesfoot corkscrew from the emaciated shells of forgotten anemone, their skeletons sticking between the palings that serve as sprockets in this broken timepiece. Four heels—each flat to the floor—click a rhythm. A thicket crawls forward on spindly extremities, crunching and whispering as it spreads. All manner of secrets can be shaken from the leaves that scale the dishware, that twine around the sweetmeats, but those mysteries are ignored in favor of others, protected behind the teeth of a cavernous grin. "It is true, I will confess—I hold a certain dominion over this place, and that has given me something of an advantage in the past. But not to worry," the sultry voice continues, Its tone as friendly as the supple stems. "I believe you'll agree that our true playing field is far more level. I have told you before, have I not? These have been but training matches, these idyllic sessions between us. We have been biding our time… Practicing in this realm of no consequence while I await my final playing piece."

On instinct, the young man touches his dark rook. Tugs it towards him. The fluid motion registers as a blow across his face: a blossoming moonflower of pain, ballooning beneath his skin in a ghostly gush of pulsating vines. Veins. Immediately, his left eye fragments— its surface bursting within the framework of its socket, chipping and grinding into shavings of glass. Vessels rupture; he can hear his blood screaming below the sallow trap of his flesh. Something inside begins to thrash, howl. And over that ruckus, he quietly questions, "Might I inquire as to what you mean?"

The other has laced Its fingers again. Sunny jonquil pushes its buds between those lattices, flourishing in newly plucked sprays. It chooses Its words with matching delight, buttery and warm.

"The creatures that lurk in the darkness will no doubt evolve with the era," It explains, lashes fanned low over sparking eyes. Its face is older, now. Not in any way physically discernible, but in a manner that is subconsciously noticed. Acutely _felt_. Its agelessness weighs heavy on the mind, like florae hang heavy from Its bouquet. Its mouth parts and closes in twirls that match the blossoms' pirouetting petals; they are like skirts, dancing a wildflower waltz. Pollen shakes itself from layers and lips, wafting on updrafts to dapple the sky. It creates clouds. Smog. It is an airborne illness. It is difficult to breathe. "It is, therefore, necessary that I do the same."

The man swallows. His tongue has swollen. The taste of recognition is bitter atop it. Tingly. Buzzing. There is a buzzing in his bones, a droning whir as bees feed upon this exchange; his doppelgänger beams, separating Its hands as if finishing a prayer. Its posy has vanished, like so much else in this realm… But within that broken vase, It has found a pale token. Sturdy, familiar. Cradled like a baby bird, its luster catching the light in silvery halos. At its foot, layered pearls of ranunculus have been left in tiny sprigs, equal parts treasure and tribute: a warhorse, soon ready for battle. A knight, beautiful and perfect. Its possessor holds the talisman close to what might serve as Its heart—the violet brooch sparkles— and regards the trinket's minute detailing with notable affection.

"I am, shall we say, _very_ into Science these days."

Its croon is tender, amorous. The sound of it branches out between them, snagging within their ears; Its opponent feels his heart squeezed to a stop as thorny consonants wind around the rotting muscle, stomach fluttering to the ground like so many molted leaves. He stiffens. He quavers. He contorts suspended features, bristles and brambles poking through the clefts in his calm like sprouts beneath paved walkways, whitewashed floors. The enclosure—the man— lets lose a warning snarl, rumbling up from some dangerously internal epicenter. The ground beneath them growls. Quakes—

_Explodes_. Rounded bumps of jagged fumitory— once no more than weeds scratching at the weakest boards—, shriek heavenward in bushy stalks, threatening the integrity of the entire enclosure. Wooden beams snap, cutlery chimes. Dust spews in smoky plumes as whorled leaves erupt from the damaged foundation, coiling towards heaven in helices of heady vapors; the plant's fleshy tubers strike against one another as the man's palms strike against the tabletop, jarring plates and cakes and games and thoughts.

"_You leave him out of your twisted plots!_" he demands, the spread spiders of his hands weaving webs of wild rue. The tangled patches of crumpled petals and rubbery outgrowths dangle from the tabletop, thick as contempt and copses of hydrangeas. The latter has been woven into a lordly crown, and rests in lacy orbs within the hoar of the white King's hair.

The ornamentation is acknowledged by fingertips, traced with amusement. "Well, that hardly seems fair," It objects in tones of blitheness, the flowery filigree It'd been gifted shriveling with each syllable. Glorious waves of cerulean ebb away, drying into shrunken, sandy brown; heavy clumps of prickled clotbur soon cling to Its locks, instead— desiccated urchins in the sea foam of Its low-tide tresses. They cleave for a moment, then fall away, as well. "I have been gracious enough to allow you a Knight. It is only decent that I be extended the same courtesy."

"You deserve no such thing!" the man objects, iridescent clouds of nightshade trailing from his untouched tea. He gestures back to the cursed game board, to its ragtag armies and its immortalized monarchs. Ever polite, his double duly considers this protest; Its butterfly lashes flicker over the twinkling gemstones of Its colorless eyes. "Your influence is already overspent. You have made a playing piece of me enough! I cannot allow you to corrupt the soul of the one that I—!"

He freezes, flushes. Pink rosebuds bloom atop the barren terrain of his cheeks: the prized flowers of some secret plot. _Secret. _The man clamps down, locks up… But gateway of his teeth cannot keep out that which is already inside.

"…that you what?" the courteous being prompts, with all the sugar-sweetness of their foregone teatime pastries. Its gaze sparkles like the dewy mercury that trims mountains of frosting: innocuous, but toxic. Mulberries roll down the sloped edges of chinaware platters; they stick in the fluff of heart-shaped cakes, nibbles already missing from corners and curves. His companion knows better than to open his mouth, to consume that cantarella poison, but… "That you _what_, Young Master? That you _love_? That you fell for—quite literally— the same instant you met?" It chuckles, a languorous sound like the tolling of church bells. Of bluebells. Fading. It joins Its wrists and petals Its fingers, placing Its chin within the flower of Its hands. "How marvelous! How quaint! To imagine that _you_, repressed of emotions for so long, might feel your heartstrings come undone so very, very fast—after a mere century of my loosening them! My, I cannot but think of marionettes, turned head-over-heels and knotted."

It cocks Its head, knocks Its heels. He, in turn, feels tangled. Puppet-like and helpless. His insides have constricted, limbs too heavy to move of his own accord. But his jaw, at least, has fallen open.

"You…!" the aggrieved man gasps, unnatural eyes flashing. An eerie indigo gleam reflects against that distant brooch, creating kaleidoscopes and casting phantasmagoric butterflies against the tablecloth. They flurry, they flutter. Beneath the painted shelter of its roof, the enclosure shimmers in faceted hues: jewels hidden in chinks under fissured flesh, weakening rock, like wings breaking through the resin of a shattering chrysalis. "What have you done to me—?!"

"Hm? I beg your pardon?" The other reaches out—musing, indolent, and with all manner of fondness— to stroke the midnight stone of Its opponent's aged Knight, his pretty Rook. It wears an expression of amiable gratitude, undeterred by territorial growls. "You should be thanking me, shouldn't you?" It further lilts, gently situating Its new token to the dark King's empty left. Its companion twitches, but manages no more; can only watch, nostrils flared, as his pieces are dotingly rearranged. Knight and Knight and Rook, playing ring-around-the-rosy with the captured King. "I have been so patient with you, Little One. So kind. I never rushed you, never pushed, even when it seemed that you might never select respectable players. You can hardly begrudge me choosing the final piece, can you? And now, his Future will be ours, much like his guileless heart. He found this place ever so enchanting, you should be pleased to hear. He shall be the most dashing Knight, in his lab coat of white… Quite the match, I think, for your Elfin model, soon on his way to the Fair."

Another smile, cavernous and disjointed. Its upturned corners reach simultaneously for the lobe of an ear, the underlid of an eye… wreathing the surface of Its statuesque shell in cobwebbing crevices. Something—no, more than something, _ten million_ somethings— frolic and skitter and spin beneath those renderings, brushing against-along-atop each other with a hiss of wing-beat laughter. Leathery whispers and rustles; starlight glitters, luminescent. There is a_ pounding._ Millipede legs flex beneath loose grave soil, sharp as fangs and long as a leer. A long, long leer, stretching over a throat, under an arm, around a torso…

"Young Master… Oh, Little One! Whyever are you so cross?" The mobius mouth grinds, Its lips out of synch with Its query. It bellows, It breathes. It deafens Its host whilst being no more than the teeniest whisper, warm in the prison of his ear. A ribboning proboscis flicks against that drum, matching the beat of his pulse. "There is nothing but happy news this evening! Our board is set, our game is nigh… I have even found us a Lover, one who has seen your soul and fallen for Its charms."

The taunt strikes a nerve; the nerve jerks him right.

"You are _not_ my soul!" the man roars, arms lashing out to strike the beast. Elbows miss, knuckles miss, his nails are just shy of plowing strips into the roiling earth; the second skin of his rawhide gloves burst like infested boils, and the branching outgrowths that shoot from the tips of his stretching fingers lash at the monster with the vigor of a whip. There is a crack, pungent and perfumed. With a noise and a swirl, the abomination drains rapidly into itself, into the dirt; the wet slurp of Its retreat is muffled by a leafy moan, mocking in Its guiltlessness. He _strains_, and the belvedere in his command is nearly welcomed into that otherworldly vacuum, is almost fast enough to snare and strangle— but its vengeful tendrils are barred from entry at the last, crucial instant: a portal snapping shut, frustrating both the man and the imploding braids of flora.

"Oh? Am I not?"

Jeweled eyes narrow, alive with flameless fire… Salvia bleeds from the serrated maw of the man-shaped cocoon, cannibalistic as It chokes and consumes all other life within the gazebo.

"Are you so _very_ sure?"

The double dribbles Its florets, crimson petals stuck between the diamond daggers of Its fangs. It coos, It simpers; Its lilting voice is like satin, _begging_ to be ripped asunder. To be torn apart. And Its companion, despite a lifetime to teach him otherwise, falls headlong into that Venus-styled trap: infuriated and vicious and baring his teeth, fist thrusting outward and connecting with—

"—!"

The mirror splinters. Fractures. In its riven reflection, his face does the same: fragmenting into fractal patterns, reminiscent of the scores on his back, and he is rendered icy-numb for one blissful, eternal moment—

_Well then, _says the ether, with an idle nonchalance that in no way belays the other's piercing screams. Ferny columns of osmunda giggle over the excruciating, unending shriek, chortling in airy murmurs as the foaming froth of their fronds chain trembling feet. Branches slither, tendrils slink; twigs prod at the lolling sponge of his withering tongue, sending roots down the sultry soft of his esophagus—prying his throat open farther, his mouth wider, his bulbous lungs expanding to the point of popping. The verdant tide swells, both within and without: higher and higher, darker and darker— sight and sound and sensation blotting into blackness as he is buried alive, _eaten_, ripped inside-out and reassembled by a twine-tight embrace…

_Let's play, shall we? _

**X**

Cecil jolts.

Violently. Noisily. Jammed lids leap open on overwound springs, having been twisted as tight as the muscles of his torso. As they flail, so do the lanky lengths of his limbs: constricting and contracting, lightning bolting down his spine in branching crackles of electricity, rousing his system as if he were the dead reanimated. The film of sleep tears itself in two, cleaved like so much flimsy, clammy skin... Sweat-drenched and tingling. The Marquis wheezes, sore back bowed, clawing divots into his armrests. His tendons squeal, his seat in kind. Like caterpillars tossed into funeral pyres, his sinew and ligaments screech shrilly, pop, writhe… The world, too, is writhing, somersaulting through the cosmos as his stomach does within his abdomen. Bile rises, acerbic. Something else rises, too. He gags behind a glove.

"—_oh_...!"

Nauseous and choking, Cecil tries desperately to find his center. To steady his erratically skittering mind… To focus on the mechanistic pump of his overstrained heart… To stabilize the distention of his burning lungs, greedy as they suckle at stale air. In, out; in, out. In, out; in, out. For all of its impalpability, each breath is a weighted comfort atop his (healthy, pink) tongue... Terror is quashed beneath the gritty aftertaste of ancient books, melted wax, and dust that's only ever barely kept at bay. His study. He's in his study. The liquid black of latest evening floods the room, floods his mouth, leaden and familiar. As its denseness slowly quells the inferno in his chest, logic creeps its way into other cracks: his darting eyes catch the impression of shelves and candelabras, rugs and a fireplace. His desk, as dark as if crafted from the shadows themselves, is visible only beneath pale sheaves of strewn parchment. The velvet drapery, once drawn tight, now bears the smallest gap; the dyed abyss of the gardens blends seamlessly with the curtains, the sliver of its presence noticeable only by the single pin-prick of starlight being cast upon the burnish of a frame. Its reflection winks like a meteorite; its glinting tail traces the outline of an annotated map. Atop that yellowed surface, a myriad of scribblings undulate, plaintive and wafer-thin, in the draft that curls beneath the door. They are as surreal and half-noticed as the arms of lonely ghosts.

They are not the only ghosts in the room.

"…in what bush do you conceal yourself, little Elf?"

With a labored sigh, shoulders slumped in exhaustion, the Marquis forces himself to sink into the embrace of his chair—into the gloom and gray. He swallows around both, and becomes what he consumes. Gloomy. Gray. A palm rakes over his face, catching and smearing the salty condensation that has beaded upon his brow. A hoarse chortle wedges itself in the ache of his throat, humorless; he is bone-weary, rasping. The silk of his voice has been reduced to fibers. There is no other movement in the cloying mire of midnight.

"Come now," Cecil prompts, somnolent and sore. A sight, surely: a slovenly mess, and an offense to the eyes, if not all of the other senses. Atop the spread of his knees, the Marquis drops his lifted arm, heavy as if it'd been crafted from stone. He had pushed back the linen of his sleeve before slumbering; the blue-china vessels of his forearm's exposed underside smolder strangely, their hues so vibrant that they nearly _glow_ beneath the pellucidity of his skin. Cecil grunts, vainly trying to cover himself, but fatigue forces him back to stillness. To surrender. It hardly matters. Well, with anyone else it would, but not with— "There is no need to hide from me, child, though I lack the energy to seek you today."

"...indeed. You must have none at all, to have succumbed to sleep in such a state."

The dim softens. A small smile flitters, flickering like a lone firefly. It is weak, yet it is warm; it trails over the Marquis' parched lips in an uneven, wobbling line. Lethargy sees it gutter, perhaps, but the emotions behind it burn true. By its incorporeal light, Cecil can see all that he needs to: the folds and angles of a shrouded silhouette, its mass a sudden solid where there had before been nothing. The intruder—the Scout— lounges upon a high-seated stool, his hands clasped and legs crooked in some parody of famous art. He certainly sits as motionlessly as some statues; his mouth hardly moves as he speaks. "Why, Dana would be appalled to see you like this," he further chastises, the arch of his boot grinding against wooden rungs. "Flopped about and napping in your study... How like an old man you look."

The wry reprimand has teeth; the Marquis bears his own in a snorted laugh. The sound is hollow of mirth. "I _am_ an old man."

"You're a pigheaded sod, that's what you are," Earl corrects with equal flatness. As the response lacks surface traction, his companion's self-contemptuous whining slides uselessly off of it— no sympathy to catch against or fester on. With long-suffered exasperation and enviable dexterity, the Scout reaches out and fixes Cecil's sleeves, rolling them to neatness in a series of quick, deft movements that never once has them touch. "We told you to rest."

Cecil splutters, sounding rather like a tiny, outraged elephant. "I _was_ resting. Did you not see?" he demands, petulant in the wake of an unmerited reprimand. In demonstration, the Marquis flaps a pointed hand at himself, emphatically indicating his rumpled state and uncouth sprawl. "Look! I was asleep. How could I have possibly been _more _at rest than that?"

His companion is not impressed. He leans back, lordly, as he retorts, "We told you to rest _properly._"

"'_Properly_'? What, festooned in my Sunday best?"

"Cheeky. 'Properly' as in _bed_."

"Well, what difference would _that_ have made?" With a groan and a pout, Cecil finds the strength to throw his legs over the arm of his chair, draping a tented elbow across his eyes. The melodrama is affected, a literal posturing… Yet the misery that unravels the fabric of his composure is true enough. Repressed perhaps, but tainted with tangible frustration: a lone moth tumbling around the matchstick of his heart. Dangerous. His whole being wavers. "Were I to leave for my bedroom, or the kitchen, or Africa, or the colonies, it would not matter. My mind—that unshakable tenant— would tag along uninvited, and with it bring all of the contemplations it has overstuffed itself with. That is where my problem lies, dear. It's all in my head. And whether I lay upright or supine, on mattresses or loungers, those thoughts refuse to drain away…"

The Marquis sighs. The Earl considers, humming as he does so. The sound is like distant chanting, ritualistic and low; he folds his fingers, lissome digits building themselves into a spiny, inverse steeple, as if of a blasphemed church. His thumbs wind around and around. They are gears in that same tower, and they are coiling something tight. It can be felt in the gut. "If said thoughts refuse to drip from your ears," the Scout finally murmurs, the pivots of his knuckles tightening a fraction, "perhaps you might try expunging them in other ways. Sharing worries often helps lessen their burden. And if I may be so bold, Master Palmer, I am here and available for council."

"Ah, so you are. A fact which should indeed be taken advantage of, for who knows how long it will remain true," his colleague grunts, voice deep with feigned gravitas, smatterings of wryness. But despite the taint of sarcasm, the retort does contain some begrudging modicum of genuine recognition. Of agreement. Under the shield of cynicism, hidden beneath protective layers of willfulness, independence, and solemnity, there is a man who has learned loneliness and resents it; the Marquis does not mean to sound bitter, but the lessons of reality are harsh. Business has been taking Earl away with increasing frequency in recent months, and cases of other sorts have been consuming great quantities of Cecil's time, in turn. Letters are, of course, exchanged in their absence, and some things are easier explained with the assistance of ink and revision. But there is also something to be said for immediacy, intimacy, and the raw (if perilous) emotions that accompany face to face discussions. This is an opportunity that _should_ be made the most of.

Cecil sighs, lowering his lifted arm. Dangles it against the floor, unblinking gaze locked upon the ceiling. The void above is a perfect match for the pair within his pupils; what he sees within that abyss, or himself, is a mystery. "As it happens… I have been mulling on previous council," he confesses, his right hand folding into a mountain atop the plane of his belly. It twitches, wracked by minute earthquakes. "Well… Perhaps 'council' is too kind a word. 'Warnings' might be more accurate."

"You refer to the prophet?" Earl's frown expands. If Cecil's topography is made up of mountains and planes, the Scout is a nearby canyon: the jagged maw of his mouth sinking deeper in the aftershocks of earlier seismic activity. The Marquis' nod does not help still the unstable ground.

"Old Woman Josie," he softy affirms, twiddling mindlessly with the ring on his smallest finger. Red jasper flashes, a cleaved monument to the past. It reflects sparse light as he reflects on darker things. "Cards and tea and palms and stones are useful tools indeed… Like spectacles, they allow me to See through my own power. Still, like all others bound to this plane of existence, my vision is limited. Angels, though? They observe the world differently… Their vision is pure, unfiltered, and impossible to mistranslate, as soothsaying toys are not required to interpret what they divine. The Angels understand, and allow Josie to See what even her Eyes cannot— implanting within her, and within Chosen others, truths that are otherwise impossible to explain. Or cannot be explained. Or should not be explained, even when very old friends would prefer to know them. 'He will fall after he's fallen, and after he falls,' is part of what they confided to her confidence, and all of what she deigned worthy of confiding to mine."

The Scout nods, slow and somber. Familiarity with the tale allows for some facetiousness. "One would think angels and their mediums capable of candor."

"Yes, well. Bluntness would hardly gel with their image," the Marquis quips in return, the roll of his eyes suggesting shared exasperation. "Even heavenly messengers have reputations to uphold. God forbid they slip," he adds, trying a grin.

The joke— if one were to be generous with the term— is weak. Hardly clever. It deserves no laughter, let alone an ovation, and so Cecil knows it is not the reason that Earl stands. But still, Earl does stand, his every shift as silent as the shadows as he again creeps closer to his companion. A tasseled ottoman, snubbed by Cecil in favor of abusing the armrest, becomes the Scout's newest perch; the gravity of the situation is personified by the magnetic pull of two bodies towards each other: one leaning down, the other glancing up.

Earl long ago earned his badge in Emotional Literacy and Social Intelligence, but he does not need it to read the feelings trapped within his companion's colorless eyes.

"You worry you have fallen once," he summarizes, careful to keep his voice as level as Cecil's stare.

His astuteness is rewarded by an expulsion of breath. It whirlwinds through the corn silk of the Marquis' feathery bangs, laden with the scent of stagnant, secret reservoirs. Earl's locks sway in the breeze of it. Cecil swallows thickly, his front teeth striking at his lower lip like flint against tinder. Twice, three times, four; there is too much moisture (and too little air) between the mismatched pair for anything to spark… But there is, if briefly, the stench of burnt ozone.

"…it hardly occurred to me in the moment," Cecil warily admits, the perfume of petrichor dispersing in the wake of this newest whisper, "but leaping from a second story window _does_ involve a bit of a drop. It is, therefore, theoretically possible that I…"

"Quite."

Earl offers a brusque nod, affecting an air of clinical detachment that in no way disguises the tension he has folded between his broad hands. They tremble. It is a tell. And what it tells is the Scout's biggest weakness. But as he has always been kind enough to overlook Cecil's many flaws and failings, Cecil is kind enough to overlook this display. To keep his gaze on his colleague's face, which he has retained more control over. "Well then. Let us approach this logically, shall we?" Earl prompts, speaking with the proficient professionalism of a physician. "We should timeline what we know so as to learn what to expect. Would what so recently occurred count as the first foreshadowed fall? The second?"

The Marquis gives this solemn consideration. He struggles to give it more than that, to give it words full of intrinsic meaning and communicated emotion.

"The first? Maybe? Or maybe not…?" Cecil offers a noncommittal shrug to compliment his noncommittal answer, the gesture as over-exaggerated as the vowels in his reply. As he speaks, he weighs the possibilities on the scale of his shoulders, head tipping back and fore as he does so. His features squish into a similarly overstated expression; the ridiculousness does nothing to defuse either's anxiety. "With what little I've been given, I cannot be certain. Not of that, nor even of my chosen interpretation. The falling, the fallen. Is it meant metaphorically? Literally? Who can say? Really, all of this is nothing more than worthless speculation. What Josie has shared lacks so much as an indication as to whom each 'he' is meant to refer! Perhaps even you are referenced, my fairy friend, tripping as you once did from a certain mulberry bush."

"But this is _your_ fortune," the Scout insists, the point of his fingers sharp with accusation: a spear, piercing through the heart of childhood memories, laying them to waste. To rest. He will not be distracted by nostalgia. He will not dwell for an instant on that party, on their meeting. On the ever-present album of memories his mind has stored behind his eyes. He will not renounce his focus to afterimages of those mist-muted gardens, to thorny shrubs and emerald grasses, to vibrancy washed gray by the promise of showers. To air, dense and honeyed, impregnated with mysteries beneath sheets of summer rain. To tangled feelings, tugging red threads, and memories that feel less ethereal than the day itself had, even whilst in the process of living it.

No, Earl does not think of any of this. But still, it takes him a moment to pry the rest of his reply from the back of his throat, and in that time he is discomfited by the realization that the words had become glutinous, gumming his gullet in clots as stodgy and sweet as pillaged icing.

He swallows. The sensation melts away like any other saccharine treat, but its heady flavor lingers on the back of his tongue. A haunting sweetness…

"This is your fortune," Earl says again, with more restraint but less control, tasting stolen pastries in every syllable of protest, in each mouthful of air. "That in mind, there must be some conclusions we two can draw. Or, at least, assumptions we can cautiously make. For instance, if we factor in the holy interests of Higher Beings, would it not make some sense for their focus to slant towards exorcism? If so, then we can surmise that the one to fall will be—"

"You do not believe that."

The riposte is shot like a returning volley of arrows: piercing and swift. But for all of their speed and accuracy, their tips are blunted. They are crested in apathy. Cecil is not poised to fight; rather, he is poised to surrender: he waits, as if for the guillotine, with his neck lax and fully exposed over the camber of the armrest, pale and breakable as porcelain. It almost feels like a dare. Or a request. But though he waits, the only sharpness which cuts into that pallid column is the blunted sickle of the Marquis' own leather-covered nail.

"At least, you do not believe that with any confidence," Cecil quietly corrects, pressing his index against the malleable softness of his bare throat's hollow. Pressing, and pushing, as if trying to stick a pin through it. The gesture looks musing. Painful. Earl scowls, reaching out and gingerly pinching that finger between two of his own, easing it away from delicate skin before his charge manages to hurt himself. Or hurt himself further, as it were: a bruise has already begun to form, perfectly round and deeply violet. The Marquis bears it like a badge, or a macabre kind of brooch. Grotesque, yet disturbingly lovely; if it hurts, it does not keep him from speaking. "If you did believe, you would not be so worried. You might even have attempted proactivity and developed a habit of tripping me, or pushing me down stairs, in order to see me fall. There is, after all, no one in this world who wishes to see It vanquished more than you."

Eyes shift within stationary sockets. The Scout is regarded from beneath the papery wings of butterfly lids, half-lowered and hovering. The hand that he'd previously plucked up has become a spray of petaled fingers beside his partner's temple, their splay mimicking a flower one might place behind their ear. Garden anemone, pared from opals.

Earl's mood further sours at the image. He takes his turn to sigh."…well," he then begrudgingly confesses, "Perhaps it always struck me as odd that It should lack true gender, yet the prophesy should speak of men."

The Scout's astuteness earns an approving nod, as well as an equivalent expression of honesty.

"Mmm. It eats at me," Cecil expresses plainly, in some manner of agreement. His heavy lashes lift and lower, the movement measured. Smooth, unbroken: less like a blink, more like a flap of insect wings. "It is dependent on specifics, yet tells me nothing. Who will fall? Who falls? Who has already fallen? The beast? Myself? Lovely Carlos?"

"Hmph. Let it be the mad Scientist," the Earl grumbles, casting a sidelong glance at the map on the distant wall. At the notes, and the stickpins, and the threads like crisscrossed veins, made into woolen arteries and tangled within the heart of London. His glare would be dour enough to stop that heart, to curdle the plaster beneath its frame, were night not draped so thickly. But it is, and that different brand of gloom succeeds in softening the brunt of his own. He scoffs, derisive. "That man's work is an insult to ours, and the knowledge that he tries to lord serves as a poor mask to hide his worldly ignorance. I do not trust him, Sir."

The Marquis doesn't seem overly shocked by this pronouncement. He echoes Earl's snort, though with enough dryness to brittle bones. "You wouldn't, child. You do not trust anyone," he reminds in a drawl, mirth jutting through the worn seams of his patience. Civility sees him try to stitch his response back to decency, but the attempt is half-hearted. There is little point. His friend has excellent ears; no doubt he can hear the tender laughter fizzling beneath sallow skin, foaming in Cecil's marrow. It is effervescent as acid. Potent, too. As it spills, it eats away at Earl's stony composure, leaving the Scout sullen.

"Dana told me what he said about you," he snaps, infuriated by the other's lackadaisical response. Earl cocks a brow, as if to encourage his companion to ask for specifics. Cecil does not. Cecil does not do much of anything, sans don a lazy smile. The slow curl of it knots around the Scout's squirming stomach, threading through his innards and choking them like weeds. He feels ill, and in a moment of childishness tries to make the Marquis feel the same. "Libelous things, my Lord. Horrible. And meeting him the once gave me opportunity enough to read other disagreeableness from his aura."

It is a valiant attempt. But for all of Earl's efforts, his associate merely shakes his head, unperturbed by this show of bitter insistence. "He will come around," Cecil assures, grin widening. The arc of his lips makes a strain for his ears, while the bow of the Scout's reaches low for the ground.

"That rather distresses me more."

"Oh, but of _course_ it does!"

With the same, idle suggestion of an omnipresent god, the Marquis allows himself an eloquent chuckle, the ripple of it undulating through his body in gentle waves. Pearl buttons flash like so many gibbous moons; his smirk is a rising crescent, as much a waxing tease as the saucy wink he flashes. Earl bristles in the light of it, hackles raised. Teeth clenched. He flinches beneath the patronization of paternal fondness, the provocation of Cecil's affectionate goading… "Ah, how possessive is my Elfin Knight, how covetous and protective! How keen he is to forego his impossible tasks and abduct me from this perilous realm! If only he were so diligent in remembering to practice his lute or to eat his carrots—"

"Stop."

The single word—quiet as heartbreak— accomplishes far more than any previous command. Cecil freezes. Bodily. Almost literally. His countenance cracks, never having been more than a hoarfrost mask; the fault line of his smile splinters beneath its own shifting weight, fracturing like ice over the dark of deep waters. Earl's voice, delicately chilled, creeps through the air like early morning rime; his despair traces complex webs and plumose patterns over the Marquis' features. Something snaps. Something glitters, a wet sheen over glaciers. "You mock my fears, Sir, and I do not appreciate it. Not today. Not now. If your fate has been set into motion, then time is running out. My time is running out. I shall soon have to away to Scarborough Fair, and will no longer be able to protect you, Cecil."

"Earl…"

"Do not deny it, Master Palmer," he frowns, with a coldness that even Cecil's dawning dismay cannot thaw. The Marquis has stiffened in the cradle of his seat, hip twisting towards the Scout. His eyes have blown themselves wide in horror, and within their opalescence, Earl can catch glimpses of his angst: his ire warped with the realization (and regret) of having caused such offense. In his distress, he looks for all the world like a guilty child. But he is not a child, guilty or otherwise. Sometimes, despite everything, the Scout has difficulty remembering that. He shakes his head, as if that might shake off Cecil's plaintive gaze. "Don't. You were the first to divine my future, so many years ago. You were the first, and you have always been the most accurate. Do not add further insult to this conversation."

At the mention of divination, the mournful pleats that have marred the Marquis' brow shift perceptively; lachrymose morphs into something angrier, the furrows pooled with accumulated frustration. "I have _told_ you," Cecil counters, his own voice carefully tetchy with accusations of its own. He leans forward, giving in to the tug of desperation. "Your future could yet change. For humans like you, the future is _always_ changing. If you would _just_—"

"I will not compromise my calling," Earl bites back, dogged. His nostrils flare in his vexation, but he is otherwise unmovable: unyielding, and unwilling to suffer the rest of this familiar argument. "Nor will I consent to running like a coward."

Cecil makes a noise at this— a terrible noise, a grating noise. One that rings behind the ears and puts pressure on the brain; the Scout grits his teeth but does not wince, even as the non-sound vibrates through some incorporeal core. Resonates with it. Rips at it.

"You only listen to my words, then, if they come laden with the promise of Doom," the Marquis summarizes, pithy. His eyes have narrowed— small cracks in worn boulders through which gems can be peeked, half-hidden under layers of grave soil. His growl of frustration comes from somewhere equally far below: from lungs beneath lungs, the sound as rich with blackness as bottomless caverns. It calls to mind Nothing, eternal and empty. A lesser man would shrink away, but Earl has never been such a man. Not even as a boy. That is rather the problem. "If only I had known that my path would cross with the one child in all of England too foolhardy to be frightened off by the shadow of his own gruesome demise! Were it in my power, I would tell my past-self to lie, to paint you some false future… An Earl more in title than name, fat and happy with a dotting wife and ginger children."

"It would not matter. My fate would be the same."

"Ha! Oh, how ignorant the salamander, despite his cache of fae secrets!" Cecil, now properly incensed, suddenly winces, gasps. One arm—a brace against which he'd rested— abruptly loses its strength; he wavers, hooking the fingers of his right hand into the fabric of his left shoulder, nails grinding holes into both cloth and flesh. Tendons strain, knuckles as white as his linens. His skin is crawling… Wriggling, as if underneath that frail veneer hide countless, squirming caterpillars, prickly and heaving. The Marquis is heaving. His body twists, legs curling into his chest. Still, beneath the damp of his brow, Cecil's unwavering glare is judgmental, remorseful. It does not soften, not even when Earl cants forward, instincts overcoming irritation. Instead, the peevish man fights against those attentions, too, weakly writhing upon his cushions. "Years of study, and still such witlessness! All my efforts flouted, all his tutelage wasted. No, Young Master Harlan, no. Had you consented to let me be, your fate would have been so different. Despite what you have led yourself to believe, kismet is not some badge to be sewn onto your beloved sash."

The Marquis tosses said sash an acrimonious glower, daring it—or, more likely, its wearer—to react. But Earl, since distracted, merely hums, reduced to only half-listening to Cecil's baleful complaints. It is not the first time that they have quarreled over such matters, after all, and it is unlikely to be the last. Paying heed to old arguments is hardly as important as monitoring his companion's condition. The Marquis, indignant upon realizing this, makes some final attempt to shy away; his efforts go unheeded. He has no energy but to relent. To allow his self-appointed caretaker to turn his wrists, eyes tracing azure veins... To press kerchief-draped fingers against his jugular, seeking the metronome of Cecil's pulse... To smooth that same embroidered cloth over the condensation covering the Marquis' temple, as if the degree of its viscidness might tell the Scout something important. And it does.

Earl takes a breath, mutely urging his friend to do the same. He then repeats the unspoken invitation, over and over, until it is accepted. Begrudgingly, at first— then urgently. Shallowly, feebly. He waits. The Scout always waits; he is very patient. Meticulous.

And only after Cecil has calmed, prizing his own talons out of his forearm, does the Scout again return to tenaciousness. "Neither warning nor begging will be enough to banish me back to my forests, good Sir," Earl murmurs, crouched and leaning low over the breadth of the couch. He shifts— both his physical weight and the weight of his words. It is how he denotes his concluding argument, with that slight movement, and it is as practiced as any other portion of this recurring exchange. It is all very repetitive. But repetition casts a strange spell, the pair has come to realize: it reduces deceptions to tediousness, yet strengthens those acts which are truly sincere. So it is with great quantities of strength indeed that Earl is able to assert, "I shall not be growing bored, or giving up, or leaving you. It will not happen. Nothing is going to stop me. Not now. Not ever."

"…no?"

It happens in an instant, Earl's only warning an ominous calm. Reedy wheezes, rustling clothes, squeaking hide; all goes as silent as the world before a storm, the air between them dense enough to smother a man. The single word dangles above, held as if on a lucent thread, and then—

It snaps. The squall hits. In an unexpected rush, limbs as fluid as a flood, Cecil's arms dart outward— one reaching for the girdle of Earl's belt, the other grasping at the cord of his collar. He _yanks_. Yanks with enough vigor to asphyxiate, to dizzy. The applied force has both bodies jolting; the Marquis is brought up while the Earl is brought down, trapped between the spread of parted knees. The redhead's own knees are parted in kind, landing heavily against the floor; Cecil's legs weave around spread thighs, slender feet braced beside his companion's inner ankles. Before he has time to orientate himself, the Scout finds he has been properly bound: the tie pulled from the hood of his cloak and used to lasso his wrists, now caught and tangled behind his back. Had that thong been knotted, he might have been able to escape before his cape had settled around him, but no. No, Cecil knows better, and is instead holding the cord's fraying ends within a solid fist, just as he holds the dagger he had swiped from Earl's belt to the base of his friend's bared throat.

Well. This is a first.

"What of this, then?" the Marquis demands softly, his features stone-smooth and identically set. Unwavering, unblinking. The gaze that lances through the bound Scout is disconcerting in its unremitting hollowness; something flitters behind the eggshells of Cecil's teeth, its spindly appendages chittering. Needlepoint legs, segmented and skittering, drub against the bone beads of his vertebrae with a sound like rain on desert earth. Earl sucks down a breath. Holds it to stave off drowning. Would hold Cecil, too, were he allowed the use of his hands, but he is not. There is no contact between them besides the chilled press of the blade. "If you are so determined to die a Fool's death by my words, then perhaps it should also be by my hand?"

Steely showers erupt as their eyes catch: flint meeting metal in a series of layered sparks, bursting between their bodies like the petals of fallen roseheads. Those embers ignite the twining wicks of the Scout's veins, setting his extremities ablaze. His blood boils. Burbles, scalds, as it bubbles to the surface of his skin… But does not yet seep through. Not yet.

The knife rasps against the stiffness of Earl's esophagus. The light of that solitary star glances off its polished edge. Neither man notices. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

Nothing else matters.

"I am not afraid, Cecil," the Scout tells him simply, feeling the threat of metallic sharpness roll with the swell of this truth. His stare is as steady as the weapon at his throat; his unrelenting composure works in contrast to the Marquis' own. They are equal and opposite forces. They are warriors at a stalemate. They are bickering friends. They are—

They are…

Sometimes, Earl doesn't know what they are. He knows what he'd like them to be, knows what he wishes they were. But the words to express those desires jumble up in his throat like intestines and strings, and they are far more difficult to loosen than Cecil's makeshift shackles. The Scout says nothing more as his hands fall free of their fetters, the cord of his cloak left in loops across the back of his shins. His arms drop with similar limpness, and would have remained docilely at his sides had that been the Marquis' command. But Cecil has never been one to ask so much as take. One heartbeat and one shucked glove later, and he has captured Earl's wrist again—just the one, his right, in a nest of diamond-chilled fingers. He cradles it between them with all the tenderness of a lover.

This time, the Scout doesn't notice when he stops breathing.

Behind the crystal of his spectacles, Cecil's pale lashes flutter, colorless and soft as gathered clouds; the storm has not yet passed, though it is no longer a tempest. Beneath their diaphanous lay, his expression is inscrutable, distant… But his hand, willowy and cool and so amazingly _bare_, is close, so _close_—touching him. With all manner of delicacy, ginger as if the Earl might break. Dry skin whispers against dry skin… Fingertips ghost over the lines of the Scout's palm, until they are haunted by phantom tingles. Earl shudders, just once, from an unrelated sensation. Then he pauses, noticing how the other's nail has found the end of his unimpressive lifeline.

Cecil's lips purse. The rejected dagger is lifted again. Lowered again. Makes its first incision, without hesitation or consent, and for a split second Earl's entire system stutters. Petrifies. Icy alarm slushes over his head, slops wetly down his limbs, prickles inside of his toes… Then, within that same moment, morphs abruptly into fire: smoldering atop his cheeks and down his arms in molten sheets. It's shock, and it's pain, and it's blood— mostly blood. Warmth rushes, puddles, in a clean, shallow rivulet the same color as Earl's hair, trailing in the wake of honed silver. The Marquis' forehead creases in concentration, bottom lip caught between his teeth; Earl, for his part, does nothing to stop him—simply watches, unperturbed, as his friend carves years into his lifeline.

The Scout's hand is broader than Cecil's, large and callused, but the latter is skilled. The task only takes seconds, despite the excruciating reverence of its execution. The sting fades to static fuzz. The blade is extracted, and the Marquis slopes forward— tentatively, charily, his smallest movement achingly precise, as his moist breath creates waves over spattered scarlet and his wiry thighs shift against the jut of slim hips. One hand continues to cup the wounded palm, holding it still; one hand slides the dagger back into its belted holster, longest finger lingering on its embellished hilt. Two eyes seek Earl's from beneath hooded lids, and they hold each other's gaze for a long and breathless minute.

Then that minute breaks.

It breaks on the face of a grandfather clock, baroque hands clunking as time drags itself forward. The spell between them breaks as well, shattering into the smallest glass shards: unnoticed, but all the more perilous for it. And Cecil, in turn, breaks their stare… But also breaks into a smile. The smallest smile, and the most frustratingly unreadable. Earl tries desperately to decipher its mysteries, to gauge some meaning from its enigmatic lift, but not one of his numerous badges could have prepared him for this— for the vortex of stardust and moonstone shining in his companion's gaze, their cosmoses infinite, sparkling.

The Marquis dips his head. The Scout stares, _feels_. Nearly chokes on his own heart beneath the brand of open lips. Hot breath and frosty velvet; the wound is cauterized by the press of three apologies: past, present, future. Lowered lashes tickle the trembling tips of Earl's fingers, fluttering like opera curtains at the start of some private show. And indeed, there is a sort of singing in the Earl's veins—a wavering vibrato that crescendos within his bones, conducted by the tiniest of gestures.

Cecil lifts his eyes. His head. His pale and pretty face, its snowy pallor glowing all the whiter beneath liquid streaks of burgundy. A wet bead of ruby quivers on his chin. The syrupy smear of his smirk quirks, sticky with the vestiges of this most intimate kiss.

His tongue sweeps against its sweetness, collected in the corners of that cheerless grin.

"…you taste of black mulberries, dearest Elf. I should have guessed as much."

The Marquis' fingers clench, if gently, around the back of his companion's hand. His thumbs—one leather-black, one porcelain-white— sweep a soothing rhythm against the heel of the Scout's palm: a tempo to soothe Cecil's pulse as much as Earl's. He matches his breathing to each lulling, subtle stroke; he counts out syllables to its beat.

Cecil counts out the other's heartbeats, too, in the minute tremors that pass between their thighs.

His hold tightens.

"You claim you do not fear, child, and you may yet be speaking honestly. But you are alone in your bravery," the morose Marquis admits in a murmur, gnawing upon his bloodied lip. The clamp of his teeth tries to fix his grin in place, but the effort is wasted; the smile slips free, and the whole of his expression crumples. Nails grind into the flesh of Earl's hand like so many butterfly pins, their bite bypassing skin and ripping straight into the Scout's soul. They are not alone in doing so.

"I am afraid," Cecil whispers. His sonorous voice is almost inaudibly soft, satin with sincerity. The spool of it dresses the Scout's wounds as with gossamer cloth, simultaneously beautiful and agonizing. Its loops chafe his heart, aggravating wounds both old and fresh, even as he admires its splendor. Even as he ties himself into ribbons. "I am so afraid, my Elfin Knight, and despite all that I know of safety, of self-preservation, I find I can no longer repress this terror of mine. I am afraid… that you fail to realize just how important you are to me."

He swallows hard.

His companion swallows harder.

The void of destiny swallows them both, dark as the sky beyond the study window. Black, sans for that single pinprick of hope.

"I will not allow you to die, Earl," Cecil tells him bluntly, in a breath both sultry and scented of copper. Of the Scout. He bleeds from the Marquis, for the Marquis, just as he is the reason that the Marquis bleeds. So much blood… And though it is said that one cannot get blood from a stone, Earl realizes now that that's wrong. One most certainly can, with enough effort. It's simply that one _shouldn't_. Pebbled fragments of insight and composure rattle in the back of Earl's throat, dry as sobs, as his friend sits primly upon his wingback throne. The white King, powerful and powerless.

"I swear to you," Cecil hisses again. "I will _not_."

It is Earl's turn to smile, then. Affectionate but joyless, his uninjured hand lifting to stroke his companion's blemished cheek. It's an impudent move—so rash that the Scout startles himself. Falters. Waits for Cecil to shy away…

Grows bold when he doesn't.

Earl can count on that same hand the number of times he's been allowed this. The number of time they've touched without the protection of gloves or bandages, clothes or blankets; the number of times he's come up to this final, most guarded barrier and been granted permission to caress it. As always, he thrills at the high honor… As well as at the flurrying sensation that eddies under his fingertips. Within Cecil's body. Literally, he sometimes thinks. Literally, he sometimes _knows_. Beneath the silk cocoon of the Marquis' flesh, something is constantly flickering about: overlain butterflies, endless butterflies, swarms and plagues of startled butterflies, invisible as the nerves that any other might feel. Earl tries to net them, to catch them beneath his palm, but it is no use; they take off in kaleidoscopic swirls the same instant that the Scout draws near, leaving him grasping at cold, barren smoothness. Clammy, deadened: patches of lifeless space just large enough to accommodate the Scout's intrusion. The unnatural _still _of the other's flesh is as disturbing as it is rousing; the whole of Earl tingles with a trepidation known only to those who disturb holy grounds…

A coarse thumb traces crimson stains; Earl dabs away what he can. Cecil watches him do so, his stare glassy enough to reflect his companion's tension. His _want_. Behind the laced translucency that frames those mirrors, Earl sees himself hesitate— if but for a moment— near the pastel plump of the Marquis' lower lip. His fingertip perches against its center with the lightness of a moth, tremulous and enchanted. Frail.

Moths are the butterflies of midnight, he thinks. Smaller, and duller, made to chase moonbeams and feathery dreams, rather than sunshine and brightly poisoned truths. But though they might only share dusk in common, they are insects of the same ilk. Like draws like, and whether they are shrouded in innocence or wickedness, their desires amount to the same. They are tempted by flowers, by honey, by promise. For the love of light, they stray into fires. With a flap of powdered wings, they can change everything.

Cecil opens his mouth, ready to change everything.

But then he stops. Whatever sugared words had been lingering on the tip of the Marquis' tongue are stemmed by the faintest pressure, submissive and knowing. Because Earl does know. He does. The Scout can guess with poignant accuracy the regrets that those lips would sculpt, and he doesn't want to hear them. Would rather not endure that final, crushing blow. Let the moth live in warm darkness a little while longer, even if that dark is just the shadow of a looming boot.

Earl shifts. Not away—it's far too late for that— but meditatively and decisively downward: slips a palm across Cecil's throat, over his shoulder... Grasps like the fallen to the fragile ledge of his clavicle. The Marquis makes no move to stop this. He makes no move to encourage it. He makes no move at all: marble once more beneath the splay of the Earl's hands, fine as art and equally expressionless. Fixed. But that's all right.

That's all right.

Earl pulls _himself_ forward this time, pressing flush to the unyielding form of this most cherished statue. His eyes and fingers squeeze tight. His chest, too, as he stamps a promise of loyalty to the rusted lock that cages the Marquis' heart. The loose-fitting drape of the other's shirt is satin-soft enough to imagine as a pair of parted lips…

The Scout shakes his head. No—no, he simply shakes. Shudders, as with laughter or tears, as he is somehow made a child once more: clinging to this man who has become his everything. This man who has saved him, doomed him. This man who he so desperately, desperately loves.

Earl breathes deep, holds tight, in the eye of this most dangerous storm.

"…and I will not hold you to that vow."

**X**

There is, his studies have indicated, something of a universal appreciation for the magical properties of the number three.

The idea of a Heaven, Earth, and Hell; a god slotted together from a trinity of parts; three chances, three wishes, three days before a miracle. Good science requires good research, and more than just a working knowledge of chemicals and calculus, biology, astronomy, and physics. History is integral. Cultural psychology, sociology, and mythology equally so. Though stories of the latter may not wind up directly transcribed in his formulas, people and their (archaic) customs are what give context to Carlos' experiments. After all, these humans of old are the ones who laid down the foundations of society, rotten with outdated beliefs and assumptions; he couldn't possibly know what to test, or fix, or even what he might hope to achieve, without first understanding the blueprints. So of course Carlos knows of the significance of three, and the number's general import to those of a more fantastical mindset.

It really shouldn't come as such a shock, then, that the third day would bring with it a knocking on his door.

The Baron is in his lab at the time, diligently accomplishing nothing. It's a testament to how very distracted he is that he notices the door at all; normally, it takes his young housekeeper and a series of progressively violent jabs to alert Carlos to the fact that there is anyone else in the world, let alone in his presence. But today his muses are quiet. Too quiet. So quiet that it's really quite _loud _in his head: his brain thrumming with the undulant refrain of summer cicadas. A plague of them, unseen but persistently _present_. Musings that he doesn't understand, ideas that he refuses to consciously acknowledge, buzz and rattle in concealed flocks behind the leaves and branches of his normal thoughts, refusing to be ignored. Yet, when he ventures too close to these abnormalities, or lingers on their presence for too long, he is chastised by a chorus of hisses— of warning rustles, the heavy _crunch_ and _crack_ of something breaking free of its shell...

His mind no longer feels his own. And the more time he passes alone in its company, the more he is afraid he might grow to believe that. To _really_ believe that. Which would be the very epitome of foolishness, of course; this is all some side effect of his concussion, nothing more. Just a side effect… Just as everything else has been, surely. It stands to follow, since the brain dictates every aspect of the body, and his has been left addled. Obviously that would lead to incongruities in his diet, his nerves, his…

All the same. It might be best, the Baron decides, pushing himself from the mess that had once served as his desk, to spend some time outside of his own head. And this room, for that matter. He's not sure how long he's kept himself holed away in it, listening vacantly to the echo of that insect drone, but he _is_ sure that he doesn't _want_ to know. He really, truly doesn't. Which is odd for Carlos, to put it mildly. Frankly, such an uncharacteristic sentiment of disinterest in the atypical might frighten him, if it wasn't for… well, if it wasn't for the fact that general apathy was, perhaps, one of the easier changes in his daily routine to come to terms with. Rather than date the sedimentary layers of biscuit crumbs and teacups he's built up atop his notes, then, Carlos concludes it would be safer to just get up, and out, and greet his caller in the fresh air of the vestibule.

At least, he thinks as much until seeing who his caller is. Then the Baron finds himself wondering if sitting around in the lab and slowly going crazy isn't perhaps the wiser option.

"Oh! S-sir!" Visibly startled—and understandably so—, Carlos' housekeeper stumbles to a halt in the middle of the foyer. Were it not for her olive skin, the Baron might have had trouble spotting her in stillness: her dark, high-necked dress and pale, frilled apron serve as perfect camouflage against the checkered pattern of the floor, the sterile expanse of white walls, and the looming shadow of their guest. He cannot be certain what has surprised her more, finding the Baron out of his quarters, or the simple fact that he has company. But despite that tossup, and to her credit, she makes an attempt at propriety; with as much dignity as a fourteen-year-old can muster, the young woman gestures towards the gentleman behind her, her features as animated as his are impassive. Carlos assumes, at least. Once he's met the other man's eyes, he finds it difficult to look elsewhere, as much as he'd like to. He recognizes those eyes—russet as apples, flecked with auburn, half-hidden behind the stylish sweep of ginger hair—, though it takes him a moment to place the face when not framed by the crimson wool of a riding cloak. It clicks in his head the same instant his housekeeper's teeth click around his name. "My Lord, might I present the honorable Earl of Harlan, visiting London today from his estate in the north, and who in his kindness thought to grace us with his presence."

"Unannounced, to my shame," the Earl adds, in tones as smooth and cool as steel. They pierce through the veil of shock with the deliberated precision of rapiers; the Baron cannot help noticing that the hand he extends is nearly as long and sturdy as such a weapon, too. He does not particularly want to grab the sharp of it, but he is compelled by duty. He is equally compelled not to wince, despite the cold of Earl's fingers and the bite of his nails. The hoary gray of the other's pressed suit glints as they shake, the glow of the mounted candelabras catching against its richness. The fabric is not alone in luxury. Golden cufflinks—oddly shaped and stamped to resemble merit badges— send sprays of warning sparks into the air, into Carlos' eyes, as they refract the candlelight. A ruby-imbued cravat pin, lovingly polished, gleams like a burning coal in the hollow of Mister Harlan's throat. Its burgundy glitter, opulent as spilt blood against the cream of his ascot, reminds Carlos a great deal of Dana's mounted gem. He wonders if both were gifts from their friend, the eccentric Marquis. "For that, you have my most sincere apologies. I trust I am not interrupting anything of import? As I was telling Miss Maureen," — and here, the Scout's expression shifts, becoming something nostalgic and tender as his gaze turns towards the beaming housekeeper— "she is under no obligation to allow me entrance to this estate. It was, if nothing else, lovely to see her doing so very well, and in such favorable standing."

"In—indeed. As you say, Sir, I think most highly of Maureen. She is irreplaceable, as is the assistance she provides," Carlos agrees, though clearly confused as to the origins of Earl's flattery. The Scientist casts a quick glance between his guest and his staff, and realizes that they are standing a smidgen closer than is the norm for strangers, particularly in this hierarchal society. They are not so near as to suggest intimacy, exactly, but instead an acquaintanceship. Or, at least, a genuine respect. Now that he's been tipped to it, the Baron further cannot help noticing that the surprise on his housekeeper's face is not entirely the negative kind. Or the negative kind at all. Her mousy features have bloomed pink beneath the weight of exchanged compliments, her bosom swelling in some secret pleasure. "Pray forgive my curiosity, but you speak as if this is not your first meeting…?"

"Ah. It isn't, though it is hardly more," Earl tells him, placing the palm that Carlos had so recently shaken very gently, and very briefly, on the curve of Maureen's shoulder. The sword of it has lost its warrior's edge, landing now as if granting damehood to the housekeeper. It is clearly a point of pride for Maureen. "It was my very distinct honor to help this brave child find a new home after her old one had been lost. As I recall, Mister Palmer found you a family in a nearby farming community. Is that not so?"

"Your memory serves you well, my Lord," Maureen tells him, looking quite elated to be prompted on the issue. Carlos, for his part, mutely reels behind his neutral façade, baffled as to how he could not have known this before. Or, more than likely, how he could have forgotten, as he is very certain he and Maureen have discussed her family on multiple occasions. All of which he remembers, of course! Just to… varying degrees of accuracy. To his frustration, the Baron has never been quite as capable with women as he has been with science. But this! This is downright disturbing, to have had such a connection to Cecil Palmer and not have known. Though… This would explain how the Marquis and his companion had previously managed to infiltrate his home with such ease. Perhaps, despite her protests to the contrary, this would also rationalize the mystery of the calling cards…? The Baron makes a mental note to interrogate his housekeeper again on that subject. For now, though, he remains quiet, and listens, and tries to _retain_. "Though my parents no longer work for John Peters. You know, the farmer. His fields proved a continual struggle, so they are now employed by a larger corporation, proudly growing the best oranges in Great Britain."

Maureen grins broadly, flashing incisors that have grown in at unfortunate angles. They look rather like mandibles. Angled out and pointed, they are a feature that Carlos knows she has never much cared for, self-conscious of the way they peek from beneath her lip like the fangs of a vampire. She once confided that she spent much of her youth suffering the nickname Carmilla—a detail that he remembers because he had been writing a paper on porphyria and its influence on local folklore at the time. But the reason he remembers his responding comment— that the charm of that particular attribute had been half the reason he'd hired her in the first place— has more to do with the sunshine smile she'd flashed him, its warmth and light bright enough to burn the skin off of any supposed nightwalker. She's wearing that sort of smile now, too: a beam lit from behind by a sunshine happiness that Carlos does not often see outside of their sporadic lessons on botany.

Earl seems less delighted—and far less enchanted—as he musingly shucks off the pewter silk of his gloves.

"Does that not go against the terms Master Palmer set upon your adoption?" he inquires, with an airy nonchalance that somehow suggests the very opposite of indifference. The gloves are drawn thoughtfully through a loose fist. Replaced upon his palm. Drawn again. Maureen responds with a gesture that might have been a shrug, were shrugging in the company of Earls and Barons a polite thing to do.

"I confess, they never told me much of that exchange. But they have never been anything but the kindest, most loving guardians," the young woman insists, quick to leap to the defense of those who are not present to defend themselves. Beneath the wide, white lace of her headband, her braids bounce against her chest, as bland a brown as the plaited ropes they imitate. As muted in color as the Earl is brazen. "And they are very happy with their new positions. Last they wrote, they insisted that they were. And though they are working more, I enjoy my position with the Baron. He teaches me much, and has given me a garden of my own."

"A garden?" For whatever reason, this innocent confession gives Earl pause. He cocks a brow— first at Maureen, then at the Baron. The expression beneath its lift is unreadable, which seems wholly unfair, as Carlos is under the distinct impression that his guest is perfectly fluent in every tic that besets his own features. In a figurative sense, the Baron is still unclear as to where he stands with this imposing figure; in the literal sense, he finds Earl is suddenly much closer than he was before, towering a full head above his host. The long fringe of his vivid bangs susurrates before his right eye, obscuring it from view… The gem at his throat twinkles, as if to make up for its loss. He is still speaking to Maureen, though the intensity of his gaze would hardly suggest as much. "Such generosity from an employer. And with your green thumb, you have undoubtedly put the gift to good use."

"I have, my Lord!" She nods exuberantly, heedless of whether or not she fully has his attention. It makes for a rather strange exchange, all the way around, with the two of them speaking as if Carlos is not here, yet both staring at him with such passion that they hardly seem aware of each other, anymore. "Yes, I love it dearly. He gave me a small plot in the corner of his conservatory, out of the way of his experiments. I have been growing calachuchi."

Earl's lips twitch. They are already set in a smile, so that must have been some homage to laughter. "Of course you have," he murmurs, before finally—_finally— _blinking. Turning away. Carlos sucks a breath into his burning lungs, not having been aware that they'd been petrified. "Does it fare well?"

"Yes, Sir, it does. It is most hale, despite unseasonable conditions."

"Then I should like very much to see it, if that is not too much an intrusion," he announces, with an easy gaiety that the Baron has a difficult time consolidating with the severe, stoic Scout who'd guarded Mister Palmer like some ginger incarnation of Cerberus. Even without his master nearby, Earl remains a dog—or dogged, at least— though in a manner more evocative of a puppy. Charismatic and curious, his tailcoats swish happily as he walks himself down the appropriate hall. Nose in the air. Eyes sharp. A bloodhound through and through, despite the fox-sly smile he flashes Carlos over the camber of his shoulder. "Oh. With the permission, of course, of my most cordial host."

The Baron returns his guest's expression with all the cool ease of a mirror. All the cool ease, but also with all the dullness inherent to any imitation. "You need not have asked," Carlos says politely, honestly, stepping forward to keep pace with the older man. "It is already yours."

And that's true. Perturbingly, ominously true. For there is not a single doubt in Carlos' mind that Earl could, and would, take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it—be it permission, or time, or human lives. The Baron can sense this. He accepts this as fact, without needing or wanting to test the hypothesis. The Earl knows that he knows; that knowledge is power. And that power is exactly what he had been after.

The sickle of the Scout's simpered smirk pierces dimples into his freckled cheeks: little Pits that hint at deeper darkness Below.

"So it is."

**X**

"If I may, what is it you work to accomplish in this annex of your home?"

There are many benefits to owning a townhouse in the hustle and bustle of greater London, the most notable of which being ease and convenience. Whether one wants to visit the theater, dine on fine foods, shop for the latest fashions… Or, perhaps, visit an expansive library, purchase new laboratory equipment, or debate predominate members of the theosophical initiate societies: keeping close to the city helps make things simple. Unfortunately, for all of the benefits, there are a few drawbacks. Lack of space, for instance. Despite the comfortable size of the Baron's home, the attached conservatory is regrettably cramped. The jungle sprawl of exotic vegetation hardly serves to give the illusion of more space, either; vines and trees and shrubs and weeds push against the pollen-smudged glass, winding up the metallic latticework of the pane-and-bolt walls. A few plants have even attempted to consume his corner workspace with their offshoots: ferny branches slithering up and over the wooden tabletop, weaving through a collection of notebooks and beakers. Carlos had tried initially, and quite valiantly, to craft a series of neat rows for the flora, but—as with most living things—they rebelled, insisting upon their own way. Mostly, he just leaves them to that, figuring it is probably for the best, as he does hope for his results to be replicated in nature.

But then, the Baron rarely has company. And now that he does, he cannot stop himself feeling a twinge of embarrassment over the disarray, despite the sense of calm that the verdant beauty generally gifts him. He swallows a mouthful of musky, faux tropical air. It tastes of moist soil, trapped sunlight, and to those with artistic minds or synesthesia, the color fuchsia.

"My primary goal is to consolidate the occult usages of certain herbs and flowers with those health benefits that science can substantiate," Carlos explains, watching warily as Earl picks around a thriving patch of lemon balm. Beneath his veneer of caution, though, the Baron finds he is both surprised and duly impressed. This is the fifth plant that has caught the Earl's attention in as many minutes, and he has shown no qualms in getting his hands dirty. As if oblivious to the costly cut of his clothes, the redhead has crouched low beside anything that intrigues him, poking gently through stems and buds and—at one point—tangled roots. Now, he plucks a single leaf, wafts its aroma to his nose, and hums in appreciation. "For instance, Melissa officinalis— that which you are currently inspecting, my Lord— has been used by witches for centuries in their love spells and charms, and has been generally thought to bring success."

"As you say. It is this latter trait which has cemented its connection to the Chariot of the tarot's Major Arcana," Earl adds, speaking of such obscure knowledge with the flippancy of one commenting that water is wet. As he does, he pushes himself again to full height, twirling the garnered leaflet between the tapered lengths of his fingers. He has, somehow, managed to remain immaculate. "Though I sincerely doubt that science has managed to verify those claims, or the ones made about the plant's connections to prophesy, psychic development, and lust."

The Scout snaps that final 't,' smirking behind the spinning balm. Carlos does not fluster as he's teased, though his cheeks do make an attempt to match Earl's hair.

"No," he assents, in a voice that is surprisingly composed— all things considered, anyway. "It does not. Though there _is_ something to be said for the healing powers that the plant is rumored to possess. Lemon balm, and many other herbs from the mint family, have proven time and again to work wonders on the human digestive system. They calm the stomach, lessen bloating, and reduce colic, as well as make tolerable the pain of menstrual cramps, headaches, and toothaches. Some subjects have gone as far as to claim a decrease in general anxiety and related conditions, which I believe is due to the chemicals inside the plant itself. They produce a—"

"A sedative, calming effect," Earl finishes, a small smile still playing upon his lips. Like a teacher, the Baron finds himself thinking. A Hierophant, pleased with the performance of a student who did not realize he was being tested. The realization sets something akin to bees lose within his veins, his head. Funny, almost, due to Melissa officinalis' association with the creature… Carlos bites back the awkward desire to comment on that fact. The words buzz beneath his tongue; he has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. But the welling ache in his jowls is a meager price to pay if it somehow helps him save face in front of whoever, or _whatever_, this Earl of Harlan is.

Earl tickles the tip of his nose with his posy, the line of his smile hard with the knowledge that he is being evaluated… but his half-hooded eyes soft with indifference to that fact.

"And of course, it smells ever so pretty," the Scout concludes cheerily.

With enviable grace, he tips his head towards his host—an acknowledgement of Carlos' commendable wisdom— before sauntering towards their makeshift elevens. A circular table and a pair of wicker chairs have been set near Maureen's waxy plumeria, the bicolored blooms of spiraled pink and buttery gold a pleasant compliment to the gilt and pearl of the Harrods brand tea set that the Baron had asked to have brought out. Into one of these steaming cups, the Scout tosses the textured leaf. He then rounds the table, lifts the foliage-free cup, and toasts, "To your health, then."

The Baron hesitates a moment, watching from a respectable distance as that bit of greenery floats atop his drink… As liquid tendrils of tea gradually reach over its curled edges… As the leaf is eased slowly, slowly down, pulled into the warmth and the gloom of steeped Earl Grey. If there is some deeper significance to, or metaphor behind this gesture, Carlos can't spare the energy to guess what it is. He can't even find the strength to be offended by a stranger tossing unwashed verdure into his beverage. Rather, Carlos is almost thankful for its addition. If the balm really does have a sedative, calming effect, he could certainly do with a dose of it now. He meanders to Earl's side with the lethargy of a man defeated, in spite of so recently having proved his intellect. He wonders if this is just the general feeling one has when dealing with Earl; the Marquis had certainly had his moments of submission when he had observed them together. Though, at least Cecil had enough vim to require being frog-marched.

Carlos, a more reserved gentleman in many aspects, simply sidles into the unoccupied seat. He waits a moment, out of politeness, for Earl to dress his brew as he pleases—a single drop of cream, round and shining as an opal— before reaching to do the same…

But he finds his progress hindered by a single, freckled finger. The digit falls, with idle purpose, atop the domed lid of the sugar jar, its blunted nail drawing a song from the painted bone china. The Baron blinks, startled. Then—puzzlingly— unequivocally _furious_.

"Do you _mind_?" Carlos growls, mouth contorting into a sneer that squeaks against his teeth. His own hands, greedily yearning for that jar, are forced to clench atop his knees to keep from doing something ruder. Earl, for his part, presses his grin to the joint of his left index, chin against his thumb as he muses on some amusing tidbit.

"'For she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by some wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules that their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was not marked 'poison,' so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, she very soon finished it off,'" the redhead quotes, the finger he'd placed atop the sugar jar tracing indolent patterns around its nub of a handle. His gaze, which had wandered into the distance of some opposite direction, returns with a speed and clarity that might cause dizziness in others. Earl suffers no such repercussions. Instead, his frown hints towards accusation. "But though it was not poison, that potion did have some unpleasant effects upon the hero, wouldn't you agree? Would it not be best, then, to abstain?"

The Baron's scowl remains, though it is now tinged with befuddlement. "It seems a trifle rich that you should hope to berate me on doctoring my tea after adding to the concoction yourself."

"Why yes, I did doctor it. But even the use of that word implies a connection to a cure. Calmed stomachs and toothaches, remember? A science you believe in. But how peculiar," Earl hums then, subtly sliding the whole of the jar to his chest when Carlos—albeit subconsciously— begins to lean towards that prize. "That we two should be tempted into Wonderland by Eat Me and Drink Me, respectively."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you need not beg," the Scout tells him glibly, with a drollness that goes far in undermining his companion's own. With a bit of pressure, the sugar jar dances: pirouetting precariously upon its own edge, its porcelain base purring against the table. The bamboo of the Baron's seat shifts, moans, in much the same way that the Baron himself does. The sugar! Earl is going to break it…! Carlos worries for its safety as he might his own. But in spite of his host's evident distress, the cruel Earl urges the pot to tip further and further… "In truth, begging accomplishes little in life. From my experience, it primarily serves to sacrifice one's dignity— usually for very meager gains. That is, if it grants one anything at all. In any event, begging will not help or save you in this matter."

The sun shines off of Earl's teeth in watery glimmers, flashing like the curve of the whirling jar. Carlos blinks, something in that lilting retort snagging his attention. The underlying threat, maybe. "I… what?"

"But surely you must know of what I speak," Earl continues blithely, pointedly oblivious to the Baron's confusion. The sugar lid is jabbering against its lip, and he ignores that, too. Its clatter resonates jarringly behind Carlos' ears, hollow and ceaseless, in a way that abruptly reminds him of other echoes. Other grindings, other chattering sounds that make him want to claw out his own eardrums. A looping ouroboros whine… And in so making that connection, the Baron feels something _bend _within his chest: a slow snap, like the springy branch of a sapling. It creaks, splinters, and suddenly he doesn't care if his guest drops the sugar. If he breaks it. Hell, Earl is invited to smash the whole damn set, just so long as the noise _stops_…!

And then, abruptly, it does: the swelling siren goes completely silent. Utterly, and instantaneously. The whole of his mind, of his conservatory, possibly the whole of the world goes quiet, as well—the heavy, woolen sort of hush that clogs in the ears, and leaves one's head feeling distinctly empty.

Carlos, awed, touches his temple. Earl, bored, leans back in his seat, no longer interested in playing with the dishes. The Baron is free to have his sugar now. He makes no move for it. Instead, the Scientist turns clear eyes upon his guest, so mystified by all that has transpired that he does not even know what it is he wishes to ask. The other lathes his fingers across his stomach, apathetic to his own strange abilities. Whatever it is those abilities are. Maybe some untested form of suggestion, or a tonal-based subset of his recent theory about subliminally coercing the human mind…?

"Temporary association hypnosis," Earl drawls in correction, with the effortless surety of one who has been asked to answer a very simple question. But he had not been asked anything. For half a second, Carlos wonders if he might be able to use this response as evidence to support a working hypothesis on telepathy; then he realizes that his interest was likely ridiculously easy to read off of his face. And Earl, as the Baron had been made quite aware, was an incredibly literate fellow. Carlos thinks it might be prudent to affect some shame in response to his own overenthusiasm, but he can't be bothered; it's too nice to feel more like himself again, to be keen and questioning. He cants closer once more, but only pushes the pot to the side in his quest to scrutinize the Scout.

Earl, in turn, makes a show of rolling his eyes, as if very much used to silly antics of this sort. Patient, but impatient about it. "Its effects will not last long, Sir," he tells Carlos in a drone, "so let us get straight to the point, shall we? I am aware of your meeting with the Marquis. I am equally aware that he has alerted _you _to your current situation. To your entanglement with demons."

"You mean _demon_," the Baron corrects, brusque. That he manages to swallow down a snort is of some point of pride. Though he would retroactively confess to having been— in some ways— intrigued by the Marquis' performance in the basement of the Community Radio, time and distance and daylight have done wonders in draining the residual fright from the encounter. Now, it feels more like a dream than… Well, than some of his more recent dreams. "He spoke only of one. As if that were not impossible enough!"

Carlos' scoff is tinged with wry amusement. The belittling sort, assumed in the aftermath of nightmares and ghost stories. Earl does not join in the chuckles. Nor does he continue to bestow his host with the honor of his attention. Instead, he turns away. Waits, like a censorious parent, while tolerantly admiring the tissue paper sprays of rhododendron that are working to outgrow the plumeria. His complete disregard of the Baron's presence succeeds in smothering Carlos' mirth faster and more effectively than any verbal dissuasion. His guest takes a soundless pull of his tea, content to let the Scientist stew in his own awkwardness. The hush balances on the precipice of becoming physically painful. Only the tenterhooks in Carlos' chest keep him from tumbling over that ledge…

"…perhaps only one was mentioned directly, Sir," the Earl finally says, his soft voice a blessing after a full minute of condemnatory silence, "but I do indeed mean _demons_. For if you were not the desire of more than one, you would have been consumed and discarded long before this moment. Moreover," he adds, one elegant leg crossing the other like a prayer, "the signs of recent contact are clear. Sloth and gluttony, avarice unmerited. An addled, idle mind."

"All of which can be attributed to a concussion!" Carlos barks, torn between wanting to laugh and never wanting to endure Earl's contempt again. The Scientist does not believe in instinct, per se, but he does know that the subconscious mind picks up on far more danger cues than its conscious counterpart. And the message being relayed to his gut is that Earl's displeasure—and the consequences for inciting it—will only worsen from this point on. He chokes off his own exasperation, then, trying instead to personify persuasion. "Confusion, behavioral changes, headaches, loss of concentration or memory, impaired judgment. I am a Scientist, and very well aware of what damage to one's brain can do. You can consult Doctor Thurgood on the matter, if you do not believe me. While you're at it, you might have her remind you that I recently suffered a head injury!"

"You certainly suffered something, but I suspect it was more within your head than without," Earl counters, coolly talking over Carlos' indignant squawks. "And now _you_ are without: haunted by cravings that you cannot satiate, by half-memories that linger like the perfume of invisible flowers. Like these flowers, or…" He gesticulates mildly, fingers flickering in the general direction of those plumy rhododendrons. In the smoggy light filtering through the smudged glass, lacy petals cast stained glass shadows against the cobbled floor. The aroma of wet soil clogs their nostrils; heat collects beneath collars and hems. The sensations are entombing, familiar. But not in any sense that Carlos is accustomed to. Rather, there is an odd disconnect, some uncomfortable thorn that has begun to prick at the Baron's mind as he tries to converge the contrasting images of the balmy gardens where he sits, and the sludgy, polluted whiteness of a late-winter London beyond the windows. A frosty breeze clamors at the panes, pounding plaintively for entry; the surrounding greenery does not so much as shiver. This is a world apart. (…_we never left_.) This is a realm of eternal spring. (_We never left._) This is…

"Some secret gazebo, perhaps…?"

The suggestion—slicing cleanly through the haze of other musings— is too innocuous to be innocent. Too random to be arbitrary. Carlos stiffens, sitting straighter in his seat, as a single leaf shudders within the bifurcating branches of his mind. A warning. A shroud. Behind it, a cicada rattles, hissing its twilight threats as the Baron swallows, and realizes that a single, righteous wind will be enough to wake them all. But regardless... Regardless of that, of sheer ludicrousness, of whether the trait comes first or second, 'curious' is very high on the list of Things a Scientist Is. He is ever so curious. He has to know. He _must._

Carlos winces, but is not overly surprised to hear himself whisper, "…what do you know of gazebos?"

Something perks within the Scout. He looks impressed. Why, or for what reason, Carlos suspects he'll never fully comprehend; the fancies of this man strike him as nonsensically capricious. Maybe he hadn't expected his host to recognize the significance of the word. Or maybe he thinks the Baron a fool, and is simply proud to see that Carlos hasn't started dribbling on himself, yet. Either way...

"Very little, personally," Earl admits after a moment, not sounding apologetic, exactly, but at least feigning sympathy. As if he can empathize with the ache of wanting to know, and of being denied. "And most of the information I do hold comes from whispers, rather than experience. Recollections of waking dreams, held tightly but still slipping through cupped hands, filtering away… However, if secondhand stories are enough to frighten me, that which you have endured should've been more than sufficient in rousing you to the gravity of your predicament. You are walking a razor's edge, Sir."

Earl's stare, his condemnation, are as blunt as the butter knife he now holds between his fingers. Holds atop his finger. As if to demonstrate the fineness of the line upon which Carlos' life now balances, and how it is sustained only by the Scout's help. Carlos watches this performance obediently, blinking away the leaping embers of sunlight that burst off of the silver and burn in his eyes.

The Scout's wrist flicks. The knife soars, somersaults… is caught with the dexterity and flourishes of a baton, even as Earl's attention drifts towards a jar of raspberry jam. He uncaps it, digging into its viscous mash; the Baron swallows thickly, his throat congealed enough without the addition of scones and spread. He nudges the platter towards his guest, who in turn murmurs poetic gratitude and plucks one from the top of the pile. Earl's movements are graceful, certain. Carlos observes them for a moment, like the spectator he is, quietly comparing how his fluidity is similar to and different from that of the Marquis'.

The Baron associates. The Baron waits. The Baron mulls: gnaws on his inner cheek until the other's treat has vanished, and the knife which had eviscerated it—still streaked with gooey scarlet— is set primly atop a dish. Only then, his fingers knotting, does the Baron confesses:

"I… I cannot say that I understand."

It is a painful thing to have to declare, as Carlos has always prided himself on his abilities to learn, and to learn fast. But for all of his previous judgments, Earl does not hold this concession against him. Instead, he hums, unsurprised. The single monotone note suggests a lack of disappointment that Carlos finds strangely comforting. "If I may be so bold, then," Earl murmurs, demurely dabbing the last of the crumbs from his lips behind the lift of a cloth napkin. When he is finished, he folds the fabric, snaps it; as if through magic, the Baron finds that the swatch of linen has been replaced. Earl now holds a delicate teaspoon, and nothing more. He dips it into his drink, saying, "I have been formulating a hypothesis of my own. In regards to recent matters, anyway, and how they relate back to you. Of course, I cannot at present attest to the accuracy of this theory… Still, it may at least prove useful in explaining your dilemma."

The spoon chimes against the bell of the teacup. The Scout arches an eyebrow, awaiting a decision. Carlos, half-distracted by childish wonder and his desire to find that napkin, returns to full attention.

"Please," he prompts weakly, bowing his head in encouragement.

Earl returns the motion. Solemn. Like a pact being made, and the Scientist wonders just to what madness he has agreed.

"Very well," his guest assents, cutlery discarded in favor of steepling his hands. "Then we begin, as we must, with the foundation of facts, upon which we will rebuild your world. The most basic, and arguably the most important, is that this mortal plane is home not only to men like you or I, but also many monsters— ah!"

Earl lifts a single finger, reaching out as if to use its stricture to bind Carlos' parting lips. The Baron, despite his gaping, does not speak; the touch does not land. That does not, however, stop his expression from becoming borderline contemptuous as his guest curtly scolds, "Do not argue. While it may play into an unverified theory, this part is not up for contention. It is truth, and you would do well to drink your tea and accept it."

He pauses, pointed. Actually points. Carlos takes a small sip of his beverage, bitter from steeping too long. But though its acrid tang leaves him cringing, he must admit—the warm slide of thin liquid down his throat is soothing. Mint tingles on the edges of his tongue. There is the promise of citrus, though it isn't fully formed. There, but undetected. He drinks and accepts.

"…now then," Earl continues— more suspiciously this time, as if waiting for his host to interrupt with further inanities. But when the Baron does no more than take another pull, the Scout seems pleased; he carries on in earnest, relaxing into the throne of his wicker chair. "As I was saying. This mortal plane is home not only to humans, but also to monsters: those mystical creatures whose names have been spoken of in the folklore and religious mythologies of the ages. As you can well imagine—being, I assume, familiar with the study of sociology— the staggering number of legends left to us by the people of the past offers some testament as to their figures. Furthermore, these beings are subject to as many subclasses and breeds as any other category of animal. Bearing all of this in mind, it is _surely_ a simple matter for a Scientist of your caliber to understand the need for specialists."

The Scout, knees hooked and body lounging with regal ease, shifts his planted elbows against the mesh of woven armrests— an upward palm urging Carlos to demonstrate the extent of his comprehension. The Baron, slack jawed, can only nod. It is enough.

"Just so," the Earl praises, with a sincerity that Carlos does not feel he has yet earned. He offsets the guilty twang of that realization by deciding to work to deserve it; he remains single-mindedly attentive as his guest lowers that open hand. "And if all of that was easy enough for you to grasp, then this nearly goes without saying… But just as there are experts on every subcategory of zoology, so too are there authorities on all types of supernatural beasts. Master Cecil Palmer is one such maven. Tales of his talent and clout reach far and wide, and he holds in that head of his more paranormal data than any other I've ever met. His brilliance is _also_ a fact, and you would be wise not to debate it in my company."

The remark is made evenly, with the same ease and softness as the rest of the Scout's waxing commentary. But the nuanced shift of his brow, the single tap of his foot, and the feathery touch of his fingertips against one another seem to Carlos signs as obvious as the vivid colors of poisonous butterflies. A warning against deadly choices_._ His stomach flutters. Across the table, Earl flutters his hand, as well, paying the Baron's concerns no heed. His attention is better spent on tea, it appears. Tea, and the rest of his story.

"There are others, of course," the Earl resumes, with a sip as soundless as one would expect from a predominate member of the gentry. Or, perhaps, an assassin. "Other organizations, alike and dissimilar to my own, who work within this field. In general, those who choose this life, this career, are like meteorites: we fall together, in great clusters, and in quick blazes of light, glorious but short-lived. _We_ are short-lived. All of us… sans the Marquis of Night Vale."

He pauses— unexpectedly, mysteriously— as if to weigh this truth on his tongue. To wet his thin lips. In the interim, it strikes Carlos that this statement might somehow be layered in its meaning, but he has no way of guessing its deeper significance. He lacks data, context… and the man they are referring to couldn't possibly be older than 20. These limitations of his knowledge severely hinder the Scientist's abilities to theorize, even in hypothetical terms. In the end, he is left with no option other than to wait, watching the creases worn into the Earl's brow deepen, their shadows reflected in the tepid pool of his beverage.

The image ripples, fanned outward by a sigh.

"…there is no way for me to impress upon you the Marquis' importance, Sir Scientist. How many times he must have saved us all without a single word of gratitude. Without a single word to anyone," the Scout says, scowling at whatever memory he's scryed off the surface of his tea. Carlos notes his gravitas, but cannot share it. Not as it's intended to be shared, anyway. Instead of feeding into a more sobering emotion, the somberness exacerbates the Baron's pocketed amusement. He scoffs, thinking of inappropriately-enthused greetings and grins that pop over broad shoulders like the sun over the horizon.

"He did not strike me as exceptionally shy."

"Even stones change, given enough wind, water, and time," Earl counters, his quiet introspection replaced immediately by curtness. And, well, yes: as scientific fact, the Baron cannot but agree. But he does fail entirely to see how the erosion of sediment relates to anything that they are discussing now. He considers saying as much, but finds he does not need to; the Scout is already adding, "However, I am digressing. That is neither here nor there. What matters is only this: for reasons of his own, Master Palmer has made his vocation hunting down these creatures. Specifically, and to mankind's benefit, those who have proven intent on harming humans. He does this— with the occasional assistance of myself, and notable others—by chasing whispers, and investigating abnormalities reported on in various media outlets. Over the years, we have also created a web of informants to keep us abreast of rumors… And have garnered enough of a reputation to merit the occasional case being brought directly to our attention. As with any profession of a consulting nature, some of these leads wander to dead ends. Others take us on thrilling adventures. And some, well… Sometimes, what's brought before us proves to be of a singular, personal interest."

"You refer to cases done on behalf of friends, I presume?" Carlos says, half to get a word in and half to prove his attentions. He thinks again, briefly, of the man and his elderly butler—crossing paths over the threshold, their enigmatic smiles as they bowed him through the door. Earl smiles as well, though in tight-lipped patronization.

"No," he returns shortly. Brisk, not brusque. But still, the Baron can feel a tinge of discomfort prickle the tips of his ears; he sinks self-consciously back into his seat, realizing that his task, right now, is merely to listen. So listen he does. "Though to be generous, my Lord, it may be said that you are correct in some roundabout way. As it happens, these so-called Hansel and Gretel murders have proven to be of such special interest. The Marquis and I had been chasing rumors of this particular demon for quite some time, and had been keeping a weather eye on those we thought likely to gain Its attention. You were one of those numbers. Quite frankly," Earl drawls, with yet another roll of his eyes and without a modicum of tact, "it was only a matter of time, considering your… attributes."

His tone is flat enough to use as a serving tray. Which is oddly appropriate, considering how it is being utilized to present information to the Scientist. A cup and saucer click together like pieces of a borrowed puzzle, sorted out and assembled into patterns of fantastical thought in Carlos' mind. It's a game, he tells himself. Right now, it's still a game. All of it. But it is better to cooperate than to drown in a droning plague of insect wings and hunger, so the Baron plays along. He considers, as he is clearly expected to do, and examines the fragments presented to him… Though he holds them at a distance, not quite ready to accept them as a truth of his own. Not willing to consider the result without having assembled the whole picture.

"That's the first demon, then," Carlos eventually murmurs, having fit together what he could from that which he'd been given. There are still gaps and holes within that metaphorical puzzle. Openings for pieces he hasn't yet seen. He reaches out, as if expecting to receive physical tokens, but only prompts: "What of the other?"

It is a fair question. Earl's expression reflects that, as he takes a full minute to ponder it earnestly. Or, at least, to ponder how integral it is that Carlos should know the truth; when he next speaks, it is with a chariness equal to that of his movements. He sets aside his beverage and replies, "…for now, let us say that you gained the second demon's notice around the same time that you gained the Marquis'."

The answer offers no satisfaction. Carlos suspects his guest's words had been chosen specifically for that purpose, and is wiser than to press. At present, at least. Scientists are patient; he can wait years for results, if necessary. And he may have to, he suspects.

Earl continues, unrushed but unrelenting.

"For reasons that I could not possibly fathom and are, undoubtedly, entirely Its own, this second demon took a liking to you. A very possessive liking. Considering the evidence—," His gaze flits, if but for half an instant, towards the glazed dome of the sugar jar— "it seems safe to surmise that It seduced you in some base way… presumably through food or drink. In so doing, It marked you with Its scent. Your original devil-stalker can no doubt smell that claim, even if we mortals cannot, and now hesitates to consume you outright. However, your recent venture into otherworldly realms has rendered you quite susceptible to the influences of the slug-trailed miasma It has left throughout London."

"Miasma?"

"Its essence," Earl clarifies, nostrils flaring in distaste. "I remind you, there are many varieties of monsters and demons, and those with the power to possess others are especially troublesome. The reason this particular demon has proven impossible to stop thus far is because it has not yet fully manifested… Rather, it acts as a sort of parasite, oozing miasma—as you or I might exude sweat— from the pores of Its host. This ethereal substance leaves imperceptible trails, but serves to poison those around it."

"Including said host?"

"Most especially Its host," the Scout nods. But when Carlos pulls a face— the emotions drawn across it a bizarre mixture of disgust and scientific disappointment over the evolution of such an ineffective system—he adds, "Though the poison I speak of is not the sort that kills. In fact, perhaps it is less of a poison, and more of a potion. Think of that. Think of that, and think of the host body as a container. A vessel, if you will. Or even a teacup." As if to demonstrate the proper sort of mental image the Baron should be conjuring, Earl lifts his own drink, holding it up to the watery light. The gloss of bone china catches in blurred lines and pastel tints, painted bouquets fading to diluted antiquity upon its face. A lacy sunbeam bounces off the surface of the tea, refracting the ray in hues of syrupy sepia. It is placid, unthreatening. But beyond its shallow, ochre glow, Carlos can spot the first shadows of dregs… Skeletal wrecks of a flooded garden, and he finds himself suddenly recalling old articles— papers about prehistoric butterflies incased in amber tombs.

Within his mind, something flickers. Within the teacup, those herbs do the same. Like some kind of street magician, Earl is tapping at the glass with his little spoon; the noise of it wakes the Baron back to himself, tinny and ringing. He regains his focus, regains his control… Considers forcibly regaining the abused teacup, but resists the impulse to grab at it. That would be rude, especially when his guest is trying to be of assistance. Even if he only speaks in riddles and allegories, he _is_ trying.

Carlos tries, too. Leans forward. Stares intently, forcing himself not to flinch as the spoon's song becomes louder and louder. More insistent and grating.

"Like teacups, some hosts are very strong," the Scout explains equably, speaking over the even chime. The cutlery trembles between his fingers, its bowl screaming against pale porcelain as if in pain. _Pain_. "Some are very weak. Some wear down. But all of them can be broken. Once a demon finds its vessel's weak point—" The spoon lands against a chip. The chip splits into a splinter. Carlos jumps, making a noise, but his ire is drowned out by the persistent bell of dishware and silver, "—a crack forms. And from that crack, miasma leaks. That miasma stains all it comes into contact with." The splinter starts to seep, dribbling stained water that catches in sprays against the swigging spoon. With every stroke, the spoon splutters; the cup spits, splattering a tainted wetness against the tablecloth that dries up, but not away.

The china cries. Earl is indifferent. Grinding his makeshift shovel against its fragile flowers, he hoods his eyes and intones: "Of course, any chinked container is permanently weakened, in spite of what repairs one might try to render. It's almost too easy to make another crack, and then another, until…"

The splinter becomes a fissure. The fissure spiderwebs. Spiderwebs consume the cup— the dead and the dying covered in cobwebs, garlands ripped apart like so many springtime gardens in the wake of an earthquake. A silty brew gushes: crashes over fingers, over saucer, over table, belched up and out like so much molten rock.

Carlos swallows against something sharp and clotted, but it isn't anger over his tea set.

"…until the demon is free," he quietly surmises. The Earl hums, draping his napkin over the remnants of the mess. The fabric falls like a funeral shroud— like a blanket beneath which to hide maltreated bodies in dusky alleyways. Carlos shivers, bile rising… but is unsure which disturbs him more: the fleeting afterimage of that bloodied, soundless scream, or the practiced detachment with which his guest is regarding the broken vessel, shattered and scattered like so many bits of a skull.

"Well. It is a bit more complicated than that," Earl says after a pause. The words are as soft as the folds he is ascribing to the napkin. One, two, three, four; the cup has vanished. The tea is gone. The saucer, too, for good measure, though the tablecloth remains— and is cleaner than before. The Baron does not try to wrap his head around this illusion, instead focusing on the snap of linen and teeth. The pale of it slithers up the Scout's sleeve like a cloth serpent, hissing against his skin. With the refinement expected of those of his station, Mister Harlan places his hands over the barren wastescape that serves as his half of the table. "However for the sake of our current argument, yes."

"And the host…?" the Baron presses, his insides in such liquid shambles that he half-wonders if Earl had somehow teleported the sopping shards into the pit of his belly. Which would be impossible, surely. But so is everything else that he speaks so plainly about…

"If we can find said host, we might manage to exorcise them of the creature within, freeing them of possession. But we are running out of time. If left to Its own devices, a normal demon will amalgamate itself upon a human soul, and eventually consume it. They take over the body like an ill-fitted suit, and we will be unable to separate the two without killing the human."

There is a third peep in Carlos' brain; a fourth. A screech like broken violin strings, ligaments dragging over tendons that squeal across gray matter, rustling under sheaves and leaves of denoted facts. Beneath those cotton-dull shadows the pinpricked lights of erudition bounce off the backs of a dozen waiting eyes— small and gleaming and waking. He can't let It wake. Carlos catches It—It, Them, _something_, even he is not sure what— and holds tight. His fingers cling to his kneecaps as he focuses, grimly, on all of that which he realizes he shouldn't. He shouldn't focus on the strange. He shouldn't focus on the strange within the strange. He shouldn't focus on anything.

There is a scuttling beneath his palm. He presses down on it, _hard_, and mumbles, "A 'normal' demon?"

Earl chortles. His thumbs are beating, steady and silent, against one another, keeping to a soldier's pace. "There are always special cases."

"You said _this_ was a special case."

"So I did."

"I…" The Baron flounders, mouth open wide for words that he realizes—belatedly—he does not have. He does not have anything. For as much as Earl has given, Carlos feels completely empty-handed. His thoughts are at an impasse, much like this conversation. It's all too much, and yet, it amounts to nothing. Meaningless data, missing figures. He can't make sense of anything: the chittering in his mind, the inanity of the Scout's so-called reality. But most of all... "You confuse me. The both of you. _All_ of you."

Earl cocks a brow, elegantly surprised by the outburst. The drumming of his fingers does not falter. "'All of us'?" he echoes, in a tone so ambiguously polite— so evocative of societal normalcy, so carefully balanced between concern, shrewdness, and offence— that Carlos wonders for a single, crazed moment if he had misheard the entirety of their discussion. If, perhaps, he is the one who has lost his mind.

But no. _No_.

"The one who calls himself Cecil Palmer, of course. But also Miss Dana. And you," the Scientist snaps, finally recognizing Earl's manipulation for what it is: emotional warfare. No, no _worse_ than that. A war suggests a fight; Carlos hadn't fought. He hadn't resisted. He hadn't even _tried_. Instead, he'd been lead— guided, like some sort of lab rat— through a labyrinth of glass and false starts and impossibilities. He should have realized it before, but he has never been as adapt at reading situations as he is scientific tomes. No matter. No matter, and now— no more. He owes Earl no civility, no respect. After all, this man appeared unannounced, polluted his tea, destroyed his dishes, and demanded undisputed acceptance of a list of impossible feats and unfeasible things. Carlos has a _right_ to be confused. He has a right to be _angry_. He has the right to strike back. "You're all mad. Especially you and Miss Dana. In fact, perhaps you two are the maddest of all, for you seem to me to be people of incredible intellect— sound of both reason and judgment— and yet, despite that, you are rendered stupidly starry-eyed by this… _this_… by whatever this Marquis is! I cannot fathom what spell he's cast to earn the loyalty of such independent, fiery spirits. To manipulate those of such acumen! You wax in detail about his genius and aptitude, but from what I've observed, he is little more than a mild-mannered, well-intentioned bumbler. Or, worse still, a liar! If he has the talents that he claims, and if he is as potent as you say, would he really need assistance in vanquishing demons? Could he not divine their location and lock them up with a flick of his wrist? Moreover—"

But whatever more there might happen to be, whatever else might be bothering him, the Baron does not share. He does not speak; he does not even swallow. Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that he _cannot_ swallow— for there is now a rapier-thin needle pressed against his Adam's apple, and he fears that the blade will help itself to a hungry bite if he so much as _breathes_ out of turn. Its pressure is almost indiscernible; a radial sensation, lightly applied, that weighs next to nothing as it paralyzes his esophagus. He feels asphyxiated, trapped. He feels incensed. He feels like a butterfly, imprisoned in the damp of a basement chamber, its final moments about to be framed forever.

"…I have permanently silenced others for insulting me far less."

The Earl is speaking. Whispering. Carlos' gaze darts to find the source of that low, silken snarl, as his eyes are the only thing he feels capable of moving. Wide and wavering, they follow the polished length of gold from its perch beneath his chin to its base within the Scout's hand. The gilded spike gleams in the wan light, its body segmented into a series of progressively thinning pipes. Its seams are as luminous as something smelted. On its opposite end, a ruby glimmers. A familiar ruby. _A collapsible weapon_, Carlos realizes with some degree of fascination. An extendable foil, disguised as a cravat pin. He wonders at its mechanisms, even as he perspires beneath its point.

Earl stands. Adjusts his grip. Slinks, catlike, around the length of the table, never once allowing the dagger to slip.

"Of course, if death were a proper punishment for ignorance, I suppose _I_ would have been killed many years ago," the Scout acknowledges, his snarls supplanted by sighs as he sidles soundlessly beside the Scientist. One hip he plants against a rattan armrest; one hand he weaves through the perfumed musk, turning cyclones and airs. The Baron remains, motionless and mute, beneath his ministrations. "So allow me to put this into terms that you might understand, Sir. Let us pretend that you have two formulas." The needlepoint scrapes against the starch of Carlos' ascot, tapping twice. Two formulas. "Both are impossibly difficult—the sort that have awards offered upon their completion. Of course, you are a talented man, my Lord. I might even go so far as to call you clever. You could do either problem individually. But could you solve them simultaneously…?"

The query lingers, prompting, hovering between them with all the delicacy of a pin before it drops. Or, perhaps, a pin between lithe fingers. The blade of it has been pulled away a touch—a literal touch— so as to allow Carlos the freedom to mutter, "No, I suppose I couldn't."

"Of course you couldn't," Earl agrees, affrontingly blunt. But despite the slight, the retort induces only relief, for it is accompanied by the complete removal of the rapier. With a deft tap of some unseen button, the foil contracts, slotting back into itself section by section. Within seconds, it has reverted into a tasteful decoration; the Scout affixes it genially to the folds of the Baron's cravat. His hand remains— for a single moment too long, and meaningfully so— over the delicate shelter of Carlos' throbbing heart. Then he pulls fully away, his simper as meltingly sweet as treacle beneath eyes that flame like coals. "And so it is for Cecil. The difference being, the impossibilities he deals with are not Science."

The weight of the gem encourages quiet. The Baron rebels. "What are they, then? Those impossibilities."

"Not Science," the Earl drawls a second time, though his dryness—much like his ember-soused stare— is not without some morsel of growing, glowing respect. There is annoyance, too, undoubtedly. But as the Scientist will learn, this has always been a trait of the Scout's: to recognize and admire the tenacity of others, if only to justify his own. And Carlos, bless, in the face of endless abuse, continues to persevere… To glare, daringly, as Earl spins from his post beside the armrest and roosts instead atop the table, his lanky legs spread and braced against those of the chair. His elbows alight upon crooked knees, pale hands tangling between them: a knitted cocoon to be woven around flies, binding them before they are eaten by spiders. The Baron is, already and sufficiently, bound. So what can the spider do, then, but spin another yarn? "I am aware of how this must be difficult, Sir Scientist. Adjusting one's worldview is always a challenge. But perhaps this will help."

With a rustle of satin foppery, Earl leans closer— the copper curtain of his bangs urging his host to do the same. Carlos heeds their invitation, refusing to think of cobwebs. Of sticky strings and snares. Of futility. He is rewarded by a gossamer purr which reminds him, vividly, of all four things.

"Did you know, my Lord," the Scout persists, "that Alice's Wonderland was not penned to represent some alternative fantasy realm? Rather, it is what a certain, close-minded Reverend assumed our world would devolve into should educated men—such as yourself— accept a reality of unreal mathematical concepts. But here, good Sir, is the rub: those abstract formulas have since become verified facts, and life as we know it has not gone topsy-turvy. Do you know what this means?"

Earl pauses, prompting, with a smile as white and waxen as the sanguinaria that sprouts from the plots beyond him, and Carlos recalls—with visceral clarity— his time examining the plants' roots: its tangles and tubers and its thick, scarlet dye. That's what this man is, he realizes abruptly. Wildly. Weeds have meanings. Flowers say as much as people. Earl Harlan is a bloodroot. The way that he seeps charm, drips poison, stains everything in scarlet: everything, except for his own petals. The Baron remembers, distantly, stories he's heard of the New World's natives, and can almost see the smears on his hands. Burgundy and itching. Everything is being dyed…

"…it means we have been in Wonderland all along, and I've been none the wiser."

The Scout's smirk broadens. Smolders, somehow, like sunset against the skyline: like those last, fleeting moments of clarity before darkness and its mysteries consume. Like the final shavings of a mirage, silvery and transplendent. The constellations of his freckles shine in that twilight gloom, telling stories of both the past and the future. But for now, for the present, there is only one story that matters.

It is not the story of Alice.

They pretend that it is.

"Is that what you are accusing me of, then?" Carlos wearily demands, no longer in a state of mind to care at the implications of this accusation. He sinks into the prison of his seat, his shins knocking petulantly against Earl's. Leather squeaks; soles slide. "You think I am Alice, steadfastly representing some outdated and obstinate mindset?"

"Certainly not!" the Scout assures, the rebuke immediate. But even still, his indignation is so entirely feigned that his host half-wonders why he'd bothered with the charade of it at all. Carlos, sardonic, quirks his brow. Earl, in turn, chuckles, looking somewhat coquettish behind the arch of his hands.

"Truly, my Lord, I do not. Alice, after all, was but a young girl. And you, I rather think, are not," he says drolly, his tone as cutting as his scythe-smooth leer. "I should further assume that a man of your schooling and pedigree would prove a trifle more clever than a seven year old. Not to mention—if I may speak frankly— a smidgen more _useful_, taking into consideration your familiarity with both Science and the occult. That said, much like our aforementioned heroine, you do find yourself faced with a number of choices."

"Choices?" Carlos parrots, the word muffled behind a lifted hand. He is nearly out of emotion, now—emotion of any kind. Surprise, irritation… inquisitiveness. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, digging his nails deep into the creases of that flesh. Clinging to himself. To some vestige of himself. The pounding ache behind his skull is returning, and very little can distract from its buzz. A swarm of locusts, gathering to eat away at all other thoughts…

Earl, as if equally able to hear their approach, speaks with a touch more speed. "Of course. You have a choice to make, now, Carlos the Scientist. You have many choices. Eat Me, Drink Me, etcetera. I had choices, too, years and years ago— tea parties and smiling cats and all. A pathway of cards lain out before me, and I decided to follow where they led. I have never regretted that decision."

Carlos snorts. Scoffs beneath the splay of his palms, which he has begun to drag distractedly over his forehead, his nose, his chin. He pulls at the skin he finds, tugging as if on taffy, which in turn serves to warp the sounds in his mouth. Both features are distorted, but it is the latter that stretches: yanked from his tongue and into a lengthy groan. "Were you forcibly dragged to the precipice of the Rabbit Hole, too?"

"On the contrary," the Earl corrects. Gentle. Strangely so. He reaches out, gingerly pealing Carlos' fingers from his cheeks, and making no comments about the ruddy marks he has scored into them. "I sought it out. Tenaciously. "

The Baron considers this. He can do little else, now that his wrists are bound, too. But despite his exhaustion, his apathy, his complete lack of understanding in relation to all that is happening around him, Carlos feels as if he should be making some token show of resistance…

His head falls backwards, knocking loudly against the wicker of the chair.

Good enough.

"Would it… Would it be too forward to ask why?"

The mumbles are half-hearted, sluggish. Slurred, almost, and directed towards the mold-speckled ceiling, rather than their intended recipient. Carlos doesn't particularly care about how rude this is, because he fully expects his guest to return the rudeness by refusing an answer. Which, as it so happens, is not the case.

Though, the Baron thinks it might as well have been, considering.

"'I passed by his garden and marked with one eye

How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie," Earl recites, the shackles of his grip tightening the smallest bit—the tiniest, most honest fraction. His fingers are cold, like the iron they imitate; their twitch is like rust, a recognized weakness. That, more than anything, catches the Scientist's attention… Or, at least, the attention of whatever-it-is that drones in the crèche of his brain.

He does not lift his head, but he does shift his focus. Listens, hazily, and learns.

"The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,

While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.

When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as boon,

Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon;

While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,

And concluded the banquet by—'"

"Eating the owl," Carlos finishes flatly, staring with half-lidded eyes at the overcast sky. Again, this response tells him nothing. Again, this response tells him everything. He blinks, meditative, with a languidness generally observed in butterflies as they sip on the nectar of honeyed blossoms. Appropriately, something is coagulating in his throat, viscid. Syrupy. Probably saliva. Maybe not. He swallows against it, either way, and finds it unrefined and bitter. That seems significant, somehow. He'll mull on that later. If he can. But for now… "…more people will die, won't they?"

"Yes," Earl returns, as unfazed as he'd been by the remnants of the teacup. The Baron does not need to be looking to see his easy shrug, nor to be touching to feel the ghosts of those bone china shards. But he looks anyway, and is touched anyway. And he listens anyway, even if he doesn't care for the Scout's callous answer. "Of course they will. Death is inevitable, and people will die whether or not we catch this monster. Do not make a decision based upon their lives. Make a decision based upon your own life."

The advice is reproofed by a guttural laugh, its bark harsh and high. Nearly maniacal. It takes Carlos a moment to recognize the response as his own. And when he does, he nearly laughs again, because it's all so terrible and ridiculous and _foolish_. "What life?" he then quips, with a brontide amusement that rolls, dark and dangerous, beneath clouds of black humor and introspection. Beneath whitewashed canopies and oblong cards. Beneath the shadow of an inverted Magician, its face illuminated by the Moon. "All I've ever done is— Well." Another chuckle, its edges worn… Frayed and softer for it. The whole of him seems softer, somehow. More pliant. And in so being, Carlos finds himself both more willing and more able to contort his thoughts into the shapes that Earl has been so insistently demanding they take.

So the Baron twists his mind. Then his features. Then his mouth.

"If what you say is true, Mister Harlan, then my sin has been more grievous than any of the Reverend's. He merely wrote storybooks. I wrote theses. I gave presentations. And I… well. I suppose that's hardly what matters, right now. It's not the point." At this, Carlos moves to tug at his captured arms—to struggle and snap his wrists, to imbue this statement with some manner of emphasis—but is startled to find that he's already been released. The spark of surprise that this ignites leaps like a flame down the wick of his spine; he sits up straighter, brighter, determination returning to his face in a flickering blaze. The Scout, meanwhile, politely watches this display. He is unaffected by the fires of escalating verve, and therefore says nothing to prompt or discourage. He has, after all, already made _his _points. It is only fair to allow Carlos to make his own. And with newfound vigor, Carlos does: "The _point_ is, if you prove yourself a liar, you have set the foundation for my newest proposal. But if by some miracle your tales are true… Well. I would be a poor Scientist indeed if I was told of dissenting data and then chose willfully to ignore it."

Carlos' tirade ends as it began: with muted contemplation, slippery dread, and a sense of looming, consuming insanity. There is a circadian rhythm to it, within his head and without. But for all of that… For all of that, and despite all of _this_, the Baron's words ring with the honesty that he'd hoped they would. He stares down the Earl, his face as cautiously guarded as the other's is open. His emotions as obviously genuine as Earl's are affected.

The Scout takes a breath. Holds it delicately. Slides his gaze, smooth as silk, as far to the left as he can—momentarily, considering—before snapping back to full attention with a frown and a warning. "If you choose this way of life, there will be no escaping it."

"I could hardly escape it, anyway, could I?" Carlos reminds, with a bullishness that does nothing to mask his jittering heart, mind, or limbs. "Provided that this Wonderland, unlike Alice's, is no dream."

A rustle. A reach. A pair of broad hands fall heavily atop the table, implanting the rumpled linens with greenery of a different sort: sketched forests in spidery calligraphy, unfurled rosettes painted red and marked with the cardinal directions. A map. A plan. There are blotches like rabbit holes across the caterpillar-sallow of the parchment, fold-marks and creases like the corners of playing cards, and Carlos fears for his head as he leans closer to these woods and all that they represent, canting forward as if summoned by a Queen's invitation.

"No," Earl says as he smooths out the chart, in a tone that suggests apology without being remotely apologetic. "This Wonderland isn't."

**XXX**

_From thelanguageofflowers, google, and AngelFire:_

Bearded crepis: Protection

Belvedere: "I declare war against you"

Bilberry: Treachery

Bluebells: Consistency

Calachuchi (or Kalachuchi; Frangipani, or Plumeria): Associated with the kuntilanak/pontianak in Indonesian/Malaysian folklore

Catchfly: Snare

Clotbur: Rudeness

Clover: Be mine

Convolvulus: Bonds

Dog Rose: Pleasure and pain

Double aster: "I share your sentiments"

Foxglove: Insincerity

Fritillary (Checkered): Persecution

Fumitory: Hatred

Garden anemone: Forsaken

Harebell: Submission, grief

Helenium: Tears

Hydrangea: "You are cold," a boaster, heartlessness

Jasmine: "I attach myself to you"

Jonquil: "I desire a return of affection"

Moonflower: Night, instability

Mulberry tree (black): "I shall not survive you"

Nightshade: Truth

Oleander: Beware

Osmunda: Dreams

Peach Blossom: "I am your captive"

Ranunculus: "I am dazzled by your charms"

Red salvia: Forever mine

Rhododendron: Danger, beware

Rosebud (pink): New love

Rue: Disdain

Sanguinaria (Bloodroot): The juice of this plant does not stain its own petals, but will leave everything else orange-red; as such, it was a popular means of decoration in many Native Americans tribes. People used it to color everything from their faces to their clothes to their weapons. In the Ponca tribe, a man would rub the plant on the palm of his hand and trick the girl he wished to marry into shaking it; it's said that she would be found willing to wed in about a week. Besides being a love charm, it was utilized to purify blood, to treat cramps, to stop vomiting, to induce abortions, and to repel insects. Web MD further adds that bloodroot is useful in lessening tooth pain and reducing the buildup of plaque. The dye is sometimes known to give people an allergic reaction similar to poison ivy, and modern herbalists warn that the plant is so potent it should not be taken without the guidance of a doctor, as overdosing can be lethal.

Snakesfoot: Horror

Tarragon: Lasting interest

Tremella Nestoc: Resistance, "resolved to win"


	4. IV

**Disclaimer:** WHAT IS NIGHT VALE? WILL THIS BUY ME NIGHT VALE? GIVE ME NIGHT VALE. /waves a detached spine

**Author's Note:** The teeth-rottingly sweet Meowvale has drawn a bunch of incredible pieces of "Resurrection Lily" art, including our favorite Marquis and his ever-loyal Scout. Thank you so much, chuckaboo! These are treasures that Dangersocks and I hold very dear. We shall put them in a Dark Box for safe keeping.

Also, Dangersocks and I recently posted the first of a new "Resurrection Lily" series, a collection of plot-divergent, stand-alone one-shots called "Victorian Secrets." We did this so as to better provide you all with porn. If porn is a thing that interests you.

**Warnings:** I think you know the drill. All of that plus "Butterfly Weed" flashbacks. Thanks to Dangersocks for wearing so many different hats, including one for editing.

**XXX**

**A Taste of Something**

**X**

_IV_

"Now when all the people came to the forest, behold, there was honey on the ground."

-1 Samuel 14:25

**XXX**

Past the impressive Grecian columns of the club on Hanover Square, beyond the teeming warehouse that spills over Regent Street, and a few roads away from the bustling depot on Leicester Square, there is a room. The room is part of a humble complex, a private chamber tucked away within the ramshackle compounds of an Indian eatery. It is a small room, webbed thickly in veils; the shimmering gossamer sheets swirl upon the walls like ruby smoke, caught in the updrafts of bodies that bustle past. Women in lehenga of coral pink and men in emerald sarongs and stained aprons chat and shout in a foreign tongue as they rush into the room, around the room, through the room, out of the room, more interested in the drummed herbs and barreled seasonings stored there than they are in the two chairs squeezed into the corner. This is unfortunate, as the chairs and their occupant are the only reason that this room is ultimately of any note, despite the restaurant's popularity and well-deserved Royal Warrant.

The first chair, crafted from the same graying wood as the building itself, currently sags beneath the weight of an equally gray woman. She is powdered and pudgy, the ministrations of time having loosened sheaves of flesh from her fragile bones. Her hair, too, is loose: hoary strings that waft about her downturn face, set swirling by heady gusts. Beside her, a window has been cracked to combat the pluming heat of nearby stoves; the permeating perfume of curry spices—the full-bodied aroma of the club, the undiluted stench of the warehouse, the rustic mix of raw scents from the depot— drift between the parted panes, blending and balancing with the shop's own aroma. Each lacking odor is made perfect here, like everything is; the braided bouquets leave the air thick with sweetness, with zest. Even still, the woman's own gentle fragrance of dried yarrow clings to the golden swaths of her sari, tucked carefully around her henna-stained arms. Fresh henna, new in a way that the rest of her isn't. Against her skin, the same color as exotic sands, the inscrutable lines of recently retouched tattoos nearly appear violet. Inventive patterns of curls and blots, like vines and blossoms with pupils and lashes, look outward with the collected calm of one thousand eyes… Upon her brow, an amethyst bindi glints in an oblong ring, its color deep with wisdom. Deep and dark, as if to serve as equipoise to the milk of her irises.

The second chair is empty. But the woman had insisted upon its placement at the plank wood table, and Vythia— with her long black hair and her soft black eyes— is wiser than to question. She simply does as she is bid before returning to kneading her naan, waiting for the inevitable approach of a visitor. Of _the _visitor. There is, after all, only one person who has earned the right to sit beside her mistress, and she knows who that is. She knows who to watch for, who to listen for. She knows he will undoubtedly be here presently. But despite so much accumulated knowledge, and regardless of her most fervent attempts at keeping an eye pealed and an ear open, Vythia is the last to take notice of his sudden arrival. She might not have realized he'd appeared at all had the mistress not abruptly begun chuckling.

"Well, well… My Lord the Marquis," the woman murmurs, her voice a throaty alto with age and amusement. She speaks with conviction, even as she seemingly addresses the wall. There is no move made to stand, or to curtsy, or to in any way acknowledge an approaching member of the aristocracy; for all intents and purposes, there does not appear to be a reason to bother with such grand gesticulations. The room is as it had been mere moments before, empty of anyone of import. Still, Josie's lips quirk into a welcoming smile, the sharp of its pronged corners further crinkling the creases that have pleated beneath her sightless stare. "Were time a concept that we prescribed to, I would say that it has been too long, Sir."

A beat. Vythia's attentions abandon her dough, instead sweeping out and around. She squints; her gaze catches like light off of the capped tip of a familiar cane. It is a small, shining intrusion. The polished grip peeps—stealthy as a viper's head—through a minute gap in the layered curtains that hang around the doorframe. It hesitates, hovering. Then, with a musing bob, the handle gives a deft and pointed jerk, the silks parting to reveal a slender man in Western foppery, young and tousle-haired beneath the stylish top of his hat. He is, in many ways, his host's polar opposite: as pale as she is dark, eyes as clear as hers are opaque. But their smiles are much the same— warm beneath the roses of their cheeks— and his affections are as genuine as the mistress' own when he nods a greeting to the flour-crusted Vythia.

She grins back, content to be remembered by the one who'd saved her, and excuses herself for their privacy.

"And I, dear Josie, would not but agree," Cecil greets when they two are alone, slipping off both cap and cape. Flurries of a late winter snowfall cleave possessively to the drape of the latter's wool, crystalline barbs losing form—but not tenacity— in the heat of the eatery. Whiteness melds with red, fluff liquefying into beads upon the curve of his shoulders, damp and glittering. Where the flakes touch fabric, dewdrops form; where the flakes touch flesh, rime crusts in feathery scales. The camber of the Marquis' crown shimmers, strands of pale hair transmogrified into silver by threaded icicles. A dust like sugar tips his nose, and icing has frosted the fringe of his lashes; the chilled, unthawing remnants of the weather continue to cling, unrelenting, until batted to the floor by gloved hands.

Brushed back to some degree of respectability, the Marquis snaps his cuffs to tautness and sidles into that second seat. His cane falls against the wall as his traveling clothes falls against the armrest and one knee falls atop the other, all in a fluid, graceful movement. Josie waits through this display, watching him settle without seeing it, and sensing change without the use of her senses.

"I cannot but note that the White King is not flanked by his Elfin Knight today. Has the Child of the Mountain left to the sound of the clarion call?" she queries, blithe. Deceptively so. She is not surprised to be answered in matching tones.

"No, not yet. He is still sleeping, unaware, at home," her guest assures, promptly and with curtness, though his features remain smoothly affable— the very epitome of collected calm. Beneath the weight of that mask, Cecil sits primly, properly: fingers woven into a tight cocoon upon the precipice of his lap. "Well. In a figurative sense, anyway. It would be more accurate to relate that he had chores of his own to attend to, thereby making the conversation ours alone, my friend. May I ask how have you fared?"

Josie hums, sightless eyes staring simultaneously at and through her companion as she considers, though it is unclear whether it is her situation or the Marquis himself that she is considering. "Through the blessings of angels and the assistance of sweet Vythia, quite well," she finally decrees, placing her withered palms atop the table. Golden bands shine in the insipid afternoon light, haloing the stubby length of each digit. "Though I regret that the same has not been true for you, My Lord."

"Why yes, I meant to say—you are looking quite old today!" Cecil compliments enthusiastically, and with all manner of earnestness. Josie smirks, mirroring the gesticulating hand flapped in her direction.

"And you, quite young. My sympathies."

"Ah, yes. Well," the Marquis sighs, equitable, even as his shoulders sag beneath the heavy strain of despondence. "Not all of us have been fortunate enough to earn the protection of Heaven. It is a burden I share with the grand majority of the Earthbound. Understandable, I suppose, as those benevolent beings are quite busy. Or so I hear. However," Cecil segues swiftly, the rickety chair groaning as he shifts and again binds lithe fingers over the curve of his knee, "it is not of your connections to the realm Above that I have come here to discuss with you today."

The one that he faces acknowledges this pronouncement with a low, shrewd murmur. She does not seem overly shocked by the declaration, but then, she hardly seems much of anything. The smile has disappeared, leaving her features slack and crevassed; her expression is one of pointed impassivity beneath the film of her gaze, the blunt nails of her left hand rapping a rhythm against the papery back of her right. The measured beat of that drumming is steadier than that of any clock, even as it begins to slow… "Then why are you here, Voice of Night Vale?" she demands, with the uncompromising and unapologetic directness of the elderly. There is no need or time to beat around bushes, particularly when those bushes are full of black mulberries.

The Marquis' sunny beam wanes, becoming as weak as those seeping through the smog of gray clouds.

"I must ask you to look my way, Eyes of Night Vale," he returns, measured. Slow. The request is as quiet as it is sincere, and Cecil cants forward in the wake of it, pulled by the gravity of his own situation. "You See things better than I do."

Josie makes a small _humph_ at this, breathy with dismissal. The crusty gold woven into the hem of her sari crinkles and crackles, the crisp fabric rustled about as she arranges herself into a posture of similar flippancy. "We share the same Eyes," she counters.

"Perhaps. But you know where to turn them."

This the woman does not deny. Still, she makes no indication that she intends to cooperate, ostensibly content to stare her guest down from the other end of the table. Cecil, ever the gentleman, indulges Josie's stubbornness for three seemingly endless minutes. Neither speak, neither move. She does not blink even once. They are like statues sculpted from the same boulder, paired newel posts of an angel and a demon, and both stone carvings are waiting for the other to wear away. To crack, or to crumble, and the advantage is entirely Josie's, they know, for time is on her side. Even now, Cecil imagines he can see her shriveling; soon he will be alone.

It is with this thought at the start of the fourth minute that the Marquis concedes defeat, tutting his tongue in mild vexation. He twists. From within a leather holster strapped to the top of his thigh, he retrieves something long and flat: a single card, hidden from view beneath the splay of his palm. Presented in this manner, it is impossible to see the card's illustration. There is no way to know of its orientation. But as the tarot slides with obscene smoothness over laths of scarred mahogany, such details hardly seem to matter. Cecil's hand remains, heavy and level; he watches Josie from beneath the hood of his lashes, as if daring her outward gaze to waver.

It does not.

"What do you see in this?" he then prompts, bringing both himself and the concealed card to a graceful still. Frayed corners skirt the edge of the tabletop's unmarked equator, and in so doing the card becomes the epicenter of all things. It tugs at them, a weighted force. Josie shuffles her palms, the broad lines of her vibrant henna folding and flexing. Stylized eyes winking. Thinking. But at the same time, she does not need to think, because she knows.

"Yourself," Josie says simply. "Myself."

"It is from our quarry's spread."

"Then you hunt one of our own. The Gorge of Night Vale, undoubtedly," she tells him, with a facetiousness better saved for discussions of the weather and old operas. But then, Josie at least has some interest in the opera; now she sounds just shy of bored. Never having much cared for drama outside of the theatre, she flutters her fingers— Cecil returns the card to its brethren— and drawls, "Sight came to me after my own was taken. You were given to the Voice because you had none of your own. Taste has awakened to fill the void where Londoners' had been before rotting away. But you do not need me to tell you this," she quips, motioning in vexation at the Marquis' secreted deck, at the Marquis himself. "The evidence and your cards say it plainly enough. So why have you darkened my doorstep this day, Man of Opal and Jade? What answers might I bestow upon you that no one, nothing, else can?"

She pierces him with a pallid glare, pearlescent with expectation. And indeed, Cecil is expectant, too—had expected this, even, after a friendship of numerous decades. Yet, in the face of his companion's incisive prompting, the man cannot suppress a sizzling surge of nerves. Of electricity. The green of it courses down the conduits of his veins, sparking and spitting. He resists the urge to touch the talisman hidden in his pocket. Imagines that this must be similar to what actors feel before first stepping into their spotlights. A tingled mixture of adrenaline and fear prickles in his gut, sharp and cold as the hail that has begun to freefall from above, its pebbled ice protesting against the window panes and exclaiming atop the jutted ledge.

Cecil swallows delicately, willing himself the weather's eloquence.

"…I seek elucidation," he manages after a lengthy pause, willowy hands folding one finger at a time. The diminutive squeak of his half-gloves is almost louder than what his voice had managed, and the realization of this adds a splash of rose quartz to the marble pallor of his face. He catches his lip, releases it, and expounds: "There is a man. A beautiful, perfect man. For so many lonely years, I have strived to keep the doors to my heart locked tight. Yet, with but a single glance, I feel as if those same doors have sprung open— _burst_ open, and I have been left to drown in a deluge of emotions so long sealed away. He leaves me breathless, Josie," Cecil finishes weakly, the rubicund tint to his cheeks indeed darkening in ways reminiscent of asphyxiation. Of drowning. The whole of him shivers, violent and involuntarily—like corpses shuddering off the final vestiges of life. And yet, for all of this terrible imagery, the Marquis regards his memories with a gentle awe, whispering fondly, "This man—this Baron named Carlos— he leaves me… speechless."

Josie's retort is instantaneous, terse, and not nearly as whimsical as the Marquis' own. She grunts.

"I should imagine," the old woman then comments in a grumble. Her revulsion is so scathingly palpable that Cecil feels his nose scrunch in instinctive distaste. Feels his chest tighten as he notices an opening.

"Why so?" he demands, with a speed and eagerness that undoubtedly betrays more than he wishes it would. But then, it hardly matters; it is no secret how desperately the Marquis desires those few truths that have been denied to him. How badly he fears what he does not know that he does not yet know. The Seer nearly rolls her eyes as he fervently inquires, "Due to prophesy?"

"Due to _foolishness_," she corrects, consonants curdled as much as her lips. Cecil can nearly taste the vinegar beneath the vim, the retort acidic enough to eat through boulders. His expression cracks in surprise. "Less prophesy, more curse. You speak of locks, my Lord, but we both know that they have long since rusted— their gears picked apart by the Child of the Mountain. You speak of doors, but they are ill-fitted in broken frames—pulled open by the Girl in the Mist. You speak _lies_ to me, to _yourself_, and I do not need my Eyes to see through them. I need only to look into your own!" The accusation cracks like the end of a whip, and the Marquis flinches as its blow lands. His shoulders tauten, his jaw clenches; he glances pointedly away—as if looking up or down or sidelong might prevent Josie from noticing what she has already Seen. His lashes quiver, but such gesticulations are not enough to banish the finger that has been thrust before them. "Your eyes are open now, Marquis of Night Vale. They are the windows to your soul, and the panes have been removed. These spectacles that you have donned in their place are but a pair of cotton drapes, easy enough to push aside. You let down your guard, and allowed others within. Now, others are free to get _out._"

"_I love him_," Cecil protests, as if this might convince her to calmness. As if this somehow improves their situation. But it does not. It very much does not. The prophet's jowls quiver as she lowers her liver-spotted hand, and even he must admit to the petulance he can parse from his now-echoing retort. The rejoinder rings between them, as pouty and childish as his features would suggest.

"…do you?" Josie returns then. Simply. Softly. But her intonation is off, her emphasis strange. The Marquis tries not to consider the insinuations of this phrasing—cannot permit himself to consciously admit to anything more—, but his companion makes doing this exceedingly difficult. She dips forward, searching to share his stare despite her inability to see it. She tilts her head, seeking. Out of politeness, Cecil lets himself to be found. Or, at least, does not resist when he is. Between the pair, gangling and dark, the twin spiders of Josie's hands scuttle atop the uneven table, tripping over the surface's warped webbing. When a knotted chrysalis of fingers is discovered within their spread, those spindly hands are content to consume it. "We are all of us one being, Young Master, as you are already well aware. However, that does not make us equal. We lesser extensions are no more than appendages to some greater body. We are sources of input, ways to experience this middle realm. I myself am but an arm to your brain—lose me, and life continues. I am unimportant. You are not. You are consciousness. You are _Its_ consciousness. You are not just Cecil Palmer, and so you do not just feel as Cecil Palmer feels."

"And what do you know of that?" the Marquis bites back, with a hostility he knows he should regret. That he knows he will regret, undoubtedly. But not now. Not now, when he has been given silent permission to fester in this feeling, to consider his frustrations without the annoyance of lumping emotions in his throat. His irritation spills smoothly, silkily, unfettered. "What do you know of how Cecil Palmer feels? Of what he has allowed himself to feel, or has been _allowed_ to feel unpunished? I will confess to your insights, Madame. You are correct, as ever: I have been damaged beyond repair. Opal is weak, and I have been worn. But I am not meant to be made of rock and jewels! I am a man—I am a _human_."

"You are a _Vessel_."

"Indeed!" Cecil furiously agrees, ripping away from his companion with a flurry of furious fingers. He is released without protest, bursting free of the netted nest. "And whatever humors mix inside of this container of damned stone are not oil and water, my dear! Separation is not so simple, and a mortal soul can only suffer so much without being tainted. I cannot stop what has already begun! I can only attempt to gain some advantage from it. And after so many years of hexes, of forewarnings, of avoidance and mingling, of merging and unmerging with inner horrors in my unending efforts to save others from more external demons, I cannot stop myself from wondering: how could I possibly save myself? How could I ever understand the distribution— the _ownership_— of affections? Of the fondness that should be determined by one's place relative to my own in a heart corrupted?"

"How is one to understand affection at all?" Josie counters in turn, pithy and without pity. She has not moved from her perch at the edge of her seat, despite her guest's erratic flutterings. Her features are motionless, much as the neck beneath them; her torso is angled and still, just like her many limbs. Yet, though the woman is stationary, the light is not. A single, sourceless point of it is dancing 'round her bindi in lilac twirls, as if skirting an endless drain. Or the horn of a gramophone. The halo of that gleam orbits, hypnotic, in brisk concentric circles, and Cecil feels himself calming beneath its gaze. Beneath other gazes. The wrinkles of her arms fold, flatten, making henna squint and stretch. There is a rhythm to it all. Something circadian. He breathes to that beat, and she murmurs, "The truth of the matter is that not one of us understands, Sir. No one. The heart wants what it wants, and the mind wants what it wants, and the soul wants what it wants, and we humans tear ourselves apart trying to decipher those demands. But you cannot let yourself to be torn apart, boy," she adds, with a taciturn glower evocative of nursemaids. Cecil's thoughts turn to her mother. He is quick to turn them away again.

"I am not in pieces yet," he murmurs, with a quiet resolve that any other might find inspiring. Josie simply snorts again.

"No, but you soon will be," she tells her companion, blunt, slowly dragging chalky forearms over rutted slats of wood. She resettles atop her chair, aged bones groaning as much as the stool itself. "You think you hide it well. Your plans. Your state. If you will forgive my candor, I assure you that you do not. I know very well of stages, my Lord, of operas and plays. I have Seen this all before, and I can tell you how it will end."

"Indeed?" Cecil arches a brow, drawling and droll. He gives nothing away. He gives everything away. He gives his head a single, lazy nod, indicative of gentlemanly invitation. "Then by all means," he bids, fingers coaxing for further response. They pull at the ether, at the air, and Josie allows her voice to weaves itself around those crooking digits, tugged from her mouth like a crimson spool of satin ribbon.

"My guardians protect me, Sir. With their detachment and logic, they shield my heart, my mind, my soul from the negative effects of the Demon we share. Yours— however good their intentions— do the opposite. They draw It out. They push you in. They will love you to death, and your love will kill them."

Cecil considers this. He weighs what he knows against what he doesn't, touching the not-quite-hollow of his throat. The implications are dire. They scrape along the surface of his thoughts with the idle, yet calculated ease of a chess token sliding across its board. Of a smile slipping across the endless expanse of a cavernous maw, slickened teeth glittering like stalactites in the dark.

Then there is silence. Silence, in his heart, in his mind, in his soul… The phantom aroma of belvedere tickles at his nose, and he suckles it down with a sobering determination.

"But… I will be loved."

"You will be consumed," Josie corrects, with a hint of what might be exasperation. The Marquis shrugs this off… and in doing so, seems to remember that something should be falling from his shoulders. Irritation invokes jitters, and jitters call for distraction; Cecil glances around, tensed fingers searching, grasping, then replacing the lay of his velveteen mantle. Busywork. He fastens its ornate clasps—garnets set within silver swoops, crafted into Luckenbooth brooches— and pushes himself to his feet. Settles his hat. Plucks up his walking stick and retorts with indifference,

"As we all are, eventually. Eat or be eaten. That is the way it has always been. And perhaps I grow weary of feasting."

"If that is so, then the Demon will swallow us," the Seer intones lowly. She speaks with such dispassion for the inescapable reality of the situation that the threat does not sound particularly foreboding. And that, somehow, serves to make it all the more ominous. Cecil pauses, shifting against the flowing claret of his folded cloak and readjusting his grip on the decorative handle of his cane. His host narrows the murky nebulas that serve as her eyes as she adds, "And those few who escape its maw shall Fair no better. Be wary, Man of Opal and Jade. You are needed more than you know, and your Power is greater than you realize."

The lilted warning floats. It lifts itself upward on airy honesty, twining through the aromatic tendrils of exotic spices that hang in streaming curls beneath the high ceiling. Perfume and prophesy linger for a moment, then are lost in a breeze; lost beneath the clatter of pots and pans and accented shouting. In the adjacent kitchens, a fire blazes upwards on revitalizing spurts of oil. Unseen but felt—in intimate, heated pressure against their cheeks— the contained inferno howls, the flare of its body casting ember-bright shadows that flicker darkly over floorboards and faces. The bindi has become a void, its edges skittered by comets. That same light catches in inexpressive bursts against the prismatic filaments set within Cecil's hooded irises.

"In your own words, dear," he says dully, "I am but a Vessel. As all are, in some small way."

Josie nods, as unimpressed by the situation as the Marquis in her company. As the Marquis who is working towards abandoning her company. With a scraping of legs, a clop of heels, Cecil has moved away from her table, and is instead standing beside her shoulder. He faces the door that she keeps to her back, poised and prepared to depart. But still, the woman speaks to that second chair, and Cecil listens as if he remains seated upon it.

"Yes, my Lord. You are a Vessel," the Prophet brusquely agrees, utilizing a tactlessness that Cecil suspects had been taught to her by angels. He stiffens slightly in its wake, for the truth is blunt, but also the very opposite of that. The line of his mouth is thin as he detaches himself from its barbs. "More than that, however, you are the Voice. You are the output, you are the spoken word. And if you looked at any single word close enough, you would see within the great, glowing coils of the universe, winding and unwinding. Language holds the key to it—the key to the unraveling of all things."

A hiss, a swish. As if to illustrate this, Josie twists with a whirl of flesh and fabric— with the grace and the speed of a cosmos helixing into nothingness. The loose locks of her hair do little to waylay the illusion. They shimmer like mercury in the growing gloom of the room, like the tails of falling stars in a sky no longer capable of holding their weight. Like the plaited threads of magic and matter that make up the human soul, quickly coming unstitched. Like language, since alluded to—beautiful and poisonous— stored in the skull and oozing through its cracks in silvery strands: consonants, vowels, intentions, ideas, woven and unwoven into countless combinations… The possibilities endless, but ephemeral, so left entirely alone as they spill from her brain.

A single coil, great and glowing, settles over the bridge of her nose. Tickles her upper lip. Teases at its corner with bristled ends and deep significance. She does not touch it. The Marquis does not touch it, either—nor upon the horror that is conveyed to him so casually. His fingers, carefully gloved, touch only against the back of her hand, the rim of his hat… the palls above the door as he slips through those gauzy swaths. But before he can escape their undulant embrace, Cecil pauses. Muses. Tips his head back and smiles, too wide and too sweet, as his butterfly lashes hover above the pallid blooms of his glittering eyes.

"Well," he murmurs then, with the same gossamer softness as the sheets that waft about his person: scarlet, sheer, and sultry. "Perhaps I might serve better as a key than as a lock."

Through the ethereal lay of cerise shrouds, the Marquis' gaze gleams—rendered an otherworldly shade of ruby by translucent film and distant flames. Both waver. Everything wavers. Soprano susurrations harmonize with the sonorous rustle of a travelling cape, rippling outward like deep pools when monsters rise to break the surface. There is a whisper, a hush. There is nothing, and then the gentleman is gone: lost, as ever, beyond the veil.

His absence is marked by a sigh. Mournful, and scented wistfully of yarrow. Feeble and pained, the hunched old woman turns again to admire a chair that is filled by no one. Or, at least, by one that no one else can see.

"…choose your words carefully, brother," she mutters in foregone farewell, settling in and shutting eyes that see far, far too much. "Choose them carefully, or more than just your heart will be undone."

**X**

"How about now?"

"Not quite."

Carlos, with the first stirrings of true frustration, blows out his cheeks and feels his body sag. The hoary evidence of his tempered exasperation winds in wisps around his head, threading itself into the premature patches of gray upon his temples. He has a sinking suspicion that the additional silver is there to stay. Or, at least, it _feels_ as if he's going grayer. The Baron frowns at the thicket of frosted grasses he is attempting to pick through, careful of the knots and snarls that ice has temporarily turned to stiff marble. His boots—heavy, but not heavy enough— leave no footprints upon the frozen ground. Rather, the forest floor is unyielding in ways that make his knees throb, encouraging him to tromp with less conviction down the unmarked trail that present company has either found or is forging.

Of course, it is a trifle difficult to do anything with _less_ conviction when one hardly has any conviction to begin with.

"I am starting to suspect your intention is simply to have me catch my death of cold," the Scientist balefully gripes— not for the first time— as the ivory smudge of the sky roils, darkening to a brooding slate. The barren branches of towering oaks scrape plaintively at its gravid surface, and soon enough have clawed away small shavings of its mass. Hail tinkles down between them, the size and weight of sunflower seeds, but neither sun nor flowers appear in its wake. Instead, the rounded droplets tumble atop the graveled earth as marbles might over the grooves of the sidewalk, or bonbons upon the slush-covered street… or glazed jawbreakers— no, hard candy eyeballs— in the dark of an alley: watching, rolling, their irises multi-hued and lined with gradient filaments as they knock into snow-dusted anthills, pebbles, soles.

Carlos' head gives a dizzying throb, and he wonders if he is unconsciously shouting to hear himself over the hungry chattering of insects inside of his skull. Over an avian screech from above. The withering look that Earl has shot over the ruddy curve of his shoulder certainly suggests as such, or some more trying offence; the Scout grunts something that sounds rather vaguely like 'not an unattractive plan B,' before more clearly drawling, "Once _again_, good Sir, I assure you: I will expound upon my plans the very moment that doing so becomes relevant. In the meanwhile—"

"Yes, yes! Eyes open," the Baron finishes, in what is very likely an inappropriately strident bark. Earl flinches anyway, and not merely from the vehement manner in which Carlos is stomping atop whatever sweetmeats they spot. Small wedges of chocolate, nearly identical to muddied rocks; winegums disguised as beetle carcasses, dully colored; floss as insubstantial as animal down, diaphanous tufts caught between notches of bark or lying in soft strands upon the snow. The Baron feels his jowls twitch every time a treat comes into view, however well-hidden it lies amongst gnarled roots and matted leaves… And he is so utterly focused on grinding those enticements into the dirt, it takes him some time to realize that they are, in fact, following where the sweeties lead. He chews his lip, crusted with cold, and tries not to think of gummies dusted in sugar. "I am _definitely_ seeing more as we press deeper into Epping!"

The Scout cries out, breathily and soft, canting instinctively away from the near-shout made in his ear. "My honorable companion," he hisses, spinning 'round with a scowl as he scrubs at the side of his freckled face, "if you would be so kind as to keep from alerting everyone within the city limits as to our current position, it would make my job _infinitely_ easier."

Oh. Carlos winces in embarrassment, shrinking beneath his companion's glare. He has never been a man much interested in hunt or sport—outside of what proves essential for collecting specimen— but common sense would dictate stealth as somewhat necessary when pursuing such endeavors. And they _are_ hunting; that much Earl had told him. Though he is still not entirely sure for what. They dip beneath a brambling canopy of interwoven branches, boughs, twigs, sprigs, and offshoots, those quivering limbs laced as loosely as fingers being pulled apart post-prayer. The grid of the oddly ecclesiastical awning casts torn-doily shadows across the topography of the ground, of their faces. The Scientist scrubs uselessly at a cross-shaped smudge lain over the bridge of his nose.

"Sincerest apologies," he mutters, so quietly that he is hardly able to hear himself. Which, Carlos hopes, means that he is speaking only slightly louder than would otherwise be the norm. "Volume is becoming more and more difficult to judge. It's as if the rain sticks of some native tribes have been implanted behind my ears. I can't—it is increasingly difficult to focus on anything but that noise."

The Earl's throat makes a slight movement. Carlos imagine that means he's humming, perhaps in sympathy, but the drone of it is either muffled by, or is indistinguishable from, that buzzing in his head. "Yet you seem less irritated on that count than you did before," he comments, just loudly enough for the Scientist to comfortably catch. "This is a good sign."

"Is it?"

"Indeed," the Scout reassures, his features as impassive as his tone is flippant. He pulls back a cluster of vines, their elasticity made brittle by the weather, and ducks beneath them; Carlos is ushered after, but still manages to tangle himself momentarily in the brush. Earl sighs, not unlike a man surrendering, as the whole of the shrub sings—icicles chiming against one another in a crystalline chorus. They may as well have set off an alarm. "It means you are complying with Its wishes, and we are drawing close."

This announcement lingers, hanging between them in the crisp of the air on visible tendrils of insinuation. The Baron freezes beneath the cloud it casts, stomach dropping like his cape from the grip of the bush. "…Oh," he finally manages, unable to decide if this verdict is a Good Thing or a Bad Thing, and how he should react to it. Fear? Panic? Curiosity? Excitement? In the end, he settles for an assumed indifference, since that seems to work for Earl, and Earl's example is the only one that Carlos has to learn from, at present. He straightens as he reaches the opposite side of the low hanging branches, trying to mirror his guide's elegance. He manages to a passable degree. Then the Baron clears his throat, pats down his rumpled, twig-snarled hair, and adds with some modicum of authority, "Still, I fear I shall be of little use to you without a clear head. Might you— as before, in the conservatory—"

"I cannot trick the subconscious of one who is aware of my doing so," Earl informs, without even wasting the time to humor his companion's full request. Again, his back is towards Carlos; again, he is three steps swifter as they traverse the white woods. For reasons of warmth or camouflage, the burgundy cowl of the Scout's cloak has been drawn— two shades darker than his own copper hair—, and gives the illusion of a flame tip smoldering atop his long, tapered body. He cuts through sedge and scrub with the ease of a forest fire. "You shall have to will yourself to focus, if that is what you wish to do."

Carlos makes a noise. Or, at least, he thinks he does: feels it huff through his nose and mouth even though he cannot perceive it with his ears. Given his track record, however, the Scientist figures it is safe to assume that the sound is as undignified as his lopsided gait. "But I—" he begins, only to cut himself off when he realizes that he's uncertain how to end a complaint without sounding like a whining toddler. The Baron has surrendered enough of his self-respect. He wants to preserve what he can. In the deep of his pockets, his nails scrabble against his palms in an attempt to retain a hold on his final shreds of dignity. It is a ploy to distract himself— a last-ditch effort to keep from clawing off his ears. Carlos grinds against that waxen flesh, tries to rip and scrape at it. Tries to focus on self-inflicted discomfort, rather than that which he has less control over. Tries and fails miserably, hearing his voice bemoan, "I have _been_ willing myself, Sir. Since this began, I have done nothing _but _that. But— Lord above, it is so _grating_ and—!"

"Has the buzz become a voice?" Earl inquires, with a flatness that goes far in lidding the Scientist's grievances. The hem of his cloak eddies inaudibly against the solid earth, sending serpentine swirls of powdered snow into an ascending dusk. They are nearing a clearing, now; a vortex of wind further gutters the cold inferno of the shroud, whispering through the thinning trees with audible lachrymose. "Has that voice started to make demands of you? Coerced you? Convinced you that it has always been there? Has it offered you universal secrets or incontestable power in exchange for the logos of your soul, or bewitched your rebellious body into believing that, even now, it is becoming some other Thing? Do you feel, my Lord, any obstructions in your throat? Feathers, maybe— sharp quills that draw an inky blood with which to slowly drown you in your own petrified lungs? Or, perhaps, you are afflicted by a foreign writhing: an infestation of leaping larva or squirming weevils where your bowels had so recently been. No? Without my notice, then, honorable Baron, has your flesh begun to boil and blister, pustules pushing through the greasy tallow of your skin like wiggling fingers—fingers that originate from some Hellish realm within your marrow?"

Earl pauses. Deadpanned and prompting. Carlos swallows, his thick saliva soured by his own imagination.

"Um," he then manages, weak, after an unbearably silent moment, "No?"

"Then with all manner of respect, and with all of the empathy that one such as myself can muster, I humbly request that you cease this infernal grousing," the Scout drawls, turning again to stare dully at the heathland ahead. "As I recall, we are striving to be more useful than seven-year-olds, not more petulant."

Were the grasses in the vicinity not already dead from the winter, then surely his withering tone would have been enough to leave them shriveled. The Scientist, for his part, tries not to let the quip affect him in similar ways; he bristles, pointedly stepping _on _a squelching spatter of butterscotch. The syrup had seeped, like some sort of sap, from a scored marking in a tree that Carlos had temporarily balanced himself against, pooling in glutinous amber beside his boot. Its residue crusts atop worn suede, the same sallow ocher as certain bodily secretions. "Alice was at least permitted to eat what she was presented with," he grumbles (petulantly), insides giving an uncomfortable twinge at the utter lack of satisfaction wrought by stamping through the sticky puddle.

"Yes, well," Earl returns, in a manner so completely level that it is impossible to determine if he is being serious or sarcastic, "I only _recommended_ that you abstain from eating the enchanted candies that we find scattered across the forest floor. But if you are so very tempted, perhaps you should indulge. In the name of science, or data collection, or just to see what happens. Go on. Who knows? It may not even kill you."

The taunt hangs between them for a full minute, as cool as the breeze that rustles through. High above, a single hawk screeches. Circles. It, and the remark, hangs over their heads in dark blemishes against the gloom of the encroaching night sky.

"…you do not much care for my presence, do you, Sir?" Carlos surmises a few moments later, with the confidence of a man who makes his living surmising things. His clinical detachment from the observation is in no way feigned. Neither is his growing bemusement. Earl takes note of both, a dimple set within the left cheek of his wry half-smile.

"Do not be offended by this. I care for the presence of very few."

"Yet you so charismatically insisted upon my joining this adventure."

"Your participation was preordained," the Scout explains simply, though his attention is torn between speaking and the hawk. He cranes his neck so far back that his hood shucks itself from his tresses. The fabric crumples loosely against his upper back, and its replacement is disregarded in favor of lifting a gloved hand. "I may be many unpleasant things, my Lord, but I am not so foolish as to pick a fight with Fate."

"'Preordained'?" Carlos parrots, but with none of Earl's ingrained reverence. Instead, his nose scrunches in a manner that one might describe as scornful. Nostrils flaring, he watches as the hawk—with a silvery rustle of feathers— alight upon the Scout's raised fist, its obsidian-scythe talons clattering together in a coded series of clicks. Round, luminous eyes arc between the Earl and the Baron, sharing the orbit and color of the blood moon. Angbjorn, Earl had called it. The majestic bird butts its head beneath the Scout's chin, leaning from the irate Scientist as if his tirade had personally insulted it. Its master is beginning to look equally annoyed, but still, the Baron says, "'_Preordained'_? You cannot possibly be referring to those cards of the Marquis'."

"The tarot knows," Earl retorts, in a way that might have been enigmatic had he not appeared so peeved. Angbjorn coos shrilly, as if in agreement. "The Marquis knows. You will know this, too, soon enough."

With the instincts of one much used to debate, Carlos' snaps his mouth open to further argue his case— but the workings of his jaw encourage a certain cravat pin to scrape against the roseate skin of his Adam's apple, bringing blood to the surface of his flesh and a recent memory to the surface of his brain. He rethinks his decision to press. He swallows, forcing the tension to leave his lifted shoulders. He mentally rephrases his queries, attempting some form of deference, before trying again. "You speak like a man who has witnessed such displays firsthand. For the purposes of research and further augmenting our acquaintanceship, might you confide to me what future has been promised to you?"

The Earl says nothing. Of _course_ he says nothing, because the claims are, in truth, quite foolish. As Carlos hadn't been expecting much in the way of a reply, the complete lack of one does not bother him. Still, he does the polite thing: he waits, watching the Scout absently stroke the plumage of his hawk. He seems to be considering something. What, exactly, the Baron assumes he'll be forced to imagine, but no. He must be destined for many surprises, for Earl is suddenly speaking— responding with an odd sagaciousness to the gristly bleakness of the eviscerated horizon. A murky eventide bleeds adamantly upward; Wonderland defies the laws of gravity as the other mulls and murmurs, "I have been promised death."

There is a solemnity in his words, as deep and dark as the abyss of his blown pupils.

Unfortunately, the dramatic effect of this pronouncement is somewhat diminished by Carlos snorting. "As opposed to the rest of us…?"

"As opposed to many," the Scout returns with matching flatness, again elevating his arm. The ropey muscles earlier hinted at beneath the drape of Earl's silk shirt now flex beneath the second skin of his mantle, tautening as Angbjorn launches itself once more into the thin air. Something substantial is draining through the puncture-marks of half-hidden stars; the sickle fan of sharp wings slice further injuries into the filmy twilight, and night seeps thickly from those wounds. "What of you?" Earl inquires—almost politely— as he watches his pet race for the percolating skyline, "Has your illustrious fortune yet been lain before your eyes?"

Although it shouldn't, the question rather catches Carlos off-guard. Earl turns, just slightly, away from the distance, seeking darker prospects. Seeking Carlos. When their eyes finally meet, the Scout's shine a shade of rich, ruddy mahogany, the same hue as varnished wood. As certain tables. The Baron remembers, with unexpected clarity, the choreographed waltz of lavish cards upon a countertop at the Community Radio, their antiquated backsides a whirling fantasy of stained glass and illusory patterns, swirling about like so many gowns. So many butterflies. The centripetal whorl of their dance brings to mind clock hands and helixes, broken time spiraling into itself: into Mobius coils strewn with petals. Everything is strewn with petals. The crisp of the bleached linens, the pearl of his Wedgewood saucer, _The Magician, The Moon, _and _Cecil, laughing. Cecil, crying. Cecil, writhing— in pain or in pleasure— his slender fingers clawing frantically at fistfuls of sullied sheets. His bare back glistens beneath a sheen of glassy sweat; in the rosy light of a candle, the labyrinthine mess of cuneiform prophesies and dark spells that have been carved into his exposed flesh appear to undulate in kind_,_ the twined patterns both possessive and permanent. He can taste saline on his tongue, hear wanton moans in the deepest chambers of his ear. Feel—poignantly, _deeply_— a parasitic, rotting fear, skittering around the Marquis' heart like a millipede—_

The Scientist blinks. The vision clears. His vision clears. _Something _is cleared, and its sudden absence finds Carlos physically sick with loss. His stomach clenches around watery, leaden emptiness; he has grown clammy beneath the drape of his cloak. Even the endless, shrieking cacophony banging about behind his temples is rendered mute by the strength of the sensation—the smothering of white noise leaving his mind pitch-black with anxiety.

"I…" Carlos falters. Wets his chapped lips. Clings to his elbows. Notes, if distantly, that his voice is shaking with an intensity mirrored only by his aching appendages. The realization riles him. What the hell was _that_? "He, uh… no. No, he has not read his cards on my behalf."

The lie is weak. Carlos knows this. But he also knows that it is _not_ a lie, and therefore has no reason to sound so pathetically feeble. He forces a deep breath into his spasming lungs, calming himself back to rationality. Or to some mutation of rationality. It is almost with relief that he hears the chitinous chorus spring back to life.

Earl, having trained half of his stare upon Carlos' face, turns fully away once more. He is gracious enough to make no comment about the other's bizarrely visceral reaction. Or, if not gracious, he is at least unconcerned; he inches closer to yonder clearing, crouches low, and comments lightly, "Perhaps he should not, then. You seem the sort who prefers holding to the comforting, albeit inaccurate notion that Things Can Change, and that we are all of us not clinging to that single strand of spider silk which dangles precariously above the open maw of Hell."

"…and you say that you keep few friends. I can hardly imagine why." Despite his chills and ebbing nausea, the Scientist manages another brief chuckle. A genuine one, this time: mirth seeping through the chinks and cracks that the strange—Hallucination? Dream? Memory?— had etched into his façade. Given the choice between laughing or crying, Carlos would rather spare himself dehydration. "A joviality like yours must certainly be in high demand at the soirées of polite society."

His humor is as dry as arid sands. Earl, to his surprise, responds like a native of the desert.

"Scout life leaves few opportunities for parties."

"A shame. Your tricks would no doubt delight those others in attendance."

"Oh, in my youth, perhaps," the Scout comments blandly, though with a thoughtlessness and distance that makes it blatantly clear that his mind has already turned its focus upon other things. Likely, it joins whatever-it-is that his eyes are fixated upon beyond the brambling shrubs. The gloom. There is so much of it over there: mountainous splotches, cresting through the rime-riddled haze like the undulant humps of some loch beast. The moor is a misty sea, its heathery reefs and grassy shoals flooding with cobalt shadows in the steady rise of nightfall. "In those days, I may have sought the favor of certain individuals through cleverness, dexterity, and sleight of hand."

"How about now?"

It is Earl's turn to blink. To start like a man becoming aware of himself, mind and eyes snapping back to the here and now with a pull-toy pliancy. Immediately, his narrowed glare cuts swiftly sidelong, gouging into Carlos with a near-audible sound. "Sir, if you are again attempting to coerce me into sharing tonight's plans, then I fear I might have to—"

"No!" the Baron interjects, with an exuberance that bounces in seemingly-endless echoes against the trunks of surrounding trees. The hollow howl of the vowel ricochets off the uneven patchwork of surrounding oak bark; the cry shatters, sending fragments of sound flying every-which-way. Rebounding reverberations slam back against the Scientist's sore eardrums with enough strength to make him wince; he drops both his volume and his body when aftershocks of noise have Earl snarling. Carlos shuffles closer to his scowling companion, knees crooked and pressed tightly to his chest as he continues is a defensive hiss, "No, I meant— In regards to seeking favor…"

They are practically huddled in a bush now. A ridiculous sight, to be sure: side-by-side and soiled. However, the silver lining is that they look so incredibly stupid—twigs in their hair and muddy stains on their trousers—that Earl is unable to stay angry. He rolls his eyes instead, quietly grunting, "Hubris is a harsh hierophant. I learned my lessons long ago. That having been said, in retrospect, I suppose I can claim to have garnered the respect of those whom I wished to impress… So perhaps learning to balance cutlery was not a wasted effort."

"You speak of the Marquis," Carlos comments. States, really. Softly, but with surety.

"I do."

"You speak of him often."

"We all have our bad habits," the Earl retorts, monotonous with apathy. "You chew very loudly."

"I—!" Mortified—both by gauche bluntness and revelation— Carlos leaps to his feet, rending every single noise it is possible to make out of the shrub, his clothes, and his voice. Not necessarily by intention, but he makes no attempt to mute himself now; his affronted squawk is so pitched with indignation, not even the buzzing can assuage it. Glowering testily, the Scientist looms over the still-squatting Scout and snaps, "How about _now_?"

His companion is less than impressed. Unsurprisingly, given all that Carlos had witnessed between the man and Mister Palmer. "My Lord," Earl intones, palms flat upon his kneecaps and nails drumming against curved bone, "I know thirty ways to strangle a man without touching him."

…ah. The Baron's hand flutters—not directly to the ruby pin, but close enough to its roost that a landing is not necessary. In a handful of hammering heartbeats, his features lose the edge of an aggressor. All the same, they remain soured by the sullenness inherent to those who feel they have been wrongfully and personally attacked. "May I ask one last thing before being strangled?" Carlos inquires tersely, lashes half-lowered and heavy with annoyance. His guide shrugs, noncommittal.

"You may ask. I do not promise an answer."

Good enough. "This case," Carlos murmurs, with the same delicate precision that Earl employs as he, too, eases himself to his feet. His focus is again trained upon those shaded obscurities, nearly a kilometer in the distance: undulant, yet stable. If there had been silence, the Scout might have been able to hear vague voices over the wuthering of the winter wind. Warning whispers, maybe. Carlos rather assumes that listening for such threats would be his preference. Still, the hand that Earl gesticulates, while distracted, is prompting; the Baron allows himself to be prompted. "You mentioned that some cases are special, and that this is one of them. If its uniqueness does not stem from who requested it, then why…?"

The Scientist trails off— in more ways than one, coincidentally. Earl chooses that same moment to begin a careful decent into the moss and frost-glazed pasture, side-stepping down the steep slope that separates the woodland from the rolling prairie. The path that he blazes is meandering, seemingly idle; with Carlos at his heels, Earl swoops back and forth in wide arcs, lethargically mirroring the zigzagged paths that prey is known to create when being chased. Though they are the predators now, aren't they?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Carlos nearly trips over an unseen clump of toffee, gravity pulling his body one way and realization clawing his stomach another. His boots thrash against a knotted thicket of weeds as he stumbles; a steady hand catches his shoulder before he can fall all together. Earl has turned around again. Even through the crystalline smog, the Baron can see that the other looks conflicted. It could even be argued that he has been touched concerned. The Scout sighs through his nose—the reaction marked only by a thin stream of hoary vapors—and brushes a few clinging burrs from Carlos' cape. It strikes the Scientist as a ploy to buy himself a few more moments to muse on. He allows it. He stands still as a statue for it, up until the moment that Earl spins the other way.

The Scout hesitates for one second more. Then, brusquely, he resumes his guarded trek towards their quarry, quietly explaining as he goes, "…the Palmer family has a long history, but few members. Most individuals related to the household are not connected by blood, but instead by a lineage of servitude." Earl punctuates this statement with distaste, tongue clicking once against the roof of his mouth. The Scout's clear revulsion makes formulating his own criticism unnecessary; Carlos remains silent, but in a patient, curious way, rather than as a means of displaying disapproval. "The Palmers once managed a fair number of servants. Five of whom, I regret to say, were subjected to an unspeakable brand of cruelty. The sort of horror that words will always fail to adequately describe. After suffering the terrors of this… incident… all five were unceremoniously released from their posts, abandoned and left to forge their own ways. This was when the Marquis was very young, of course," Earl adds—not defensive, exactly, but with the swiftness of one who knows that even shallow wounds will fester if not properly cared for. Covered, before anyone can prod at them. "Very young. Very _ill_. Too young and too ill to now remember the names or faces of those who had been mistreated. And as no documentation was made of the event in question, he has had nothing but rumors by which to track down the abused—or their families— in the aftermath."

There is a pause—for breath, for contemplation. It is not the end of the story, and Carlos realizes as much, though that does not stop him from making a soft humming noise to encourage continuation. He can sense the mood shifting, the tension thickening, not dissimilar to the liquid-velvet oppression of the night they are wading into. Lacking the graces of the Scout who leads him, Carlos is forced to keep his eyes downcast; he squints out bulges and mounds in familiar, yet foreign shapes, and cannot help wondering which are the products of nature, and which are simply products. At their journey's start, when Earl had urged Carlos from the self-imposed prison of his home, the metaphorical breadcrumbs (and literal cookie crumbs) had been sparse, requiring both the Baron's obsessive gaze and the hawk-eyes of Angbjorn to be hunted down. Even as recently as five minutes ago, the majority of the forms that Carlos had spied were probably bushes and gnarled roots, pebbles and heftier rocks. But now—now, with gradual swiftness, those contours are contorting: elongating and rounding and honing shapes from the dark that are more akin to wadded gumdrops and hunks of marzipan. Lollypops bloom in clustered bunches, their pegs askew like old gravestones. Snarls of licorice, black and red, replace the twiggy scrub of barren bushes. Beyond their protuberances, puddles of custard, capped and frothy with clotted cream, shine like melted moons beneath the meager pinpricks of light that have been afforded by the heavens. Carlos' boot catches against the edge of something soft and warm, yielding and moist, and for an instant he fears it to be animal excrement… But no, its scent is too sweet. Chocolate… cake? Yes— yes, it's _cake_. A gateau. Its creamy richness challenges the torte that sits across from it, the latter topped with fruit preserved in a sugary resin. Beyond, a napoleon rises, set beside clumps of candy floss grass. Sheets and tiers of cake—lemon, pound, queen—, form spongy stairways that climb from the lawn, topped with almonds and drooling ropes of butterscotch.

The Baron scrapes his sole against something that may have been a flat stone or, possibly, peanut brittle. "By 'abuse' and 'cruelty,'" he mumbles as he does so, "might I speculate that… Well, taking into consideration your professed profession… that you are referring to something of a supernatural ilk?"

The deduction is confirmed by a rustling. It is possibly the susurration of Earl's cowl as he nods. Or it may have been the sound of plangent breezes as they make a fleet of flags from waxy wrappers. The Scientist's stare has remained downcast, so he couldn't say. But then, he is not the one who should be speaking, anyway.

"…do you remember the tea cup?" the Earl asks, warily, in lieu of a more informative reply. The query is almost as soundless as his elegant glide; he moves with the ease of a ghost over the graveled meadow, his shroud flowing like the tattered funeral foppery of specters in scary stories. There is another fibrous swish—another noise that may have been the Scout, may have been paper packaging— but isn't. Carlos had been the one to nod this time, his curls whispering against the woolen fabric of his hood. "Those unfortunate five were, in essence, transmuted into china. Into Vessels. They wandered, and lived, and reproduced, all while carrying within their cores the weight of a foul, steeping curse, riven between their numbers from the belly of the same pot. They had no choice in the matter. They bore their load, sometimes unknowingly, until the day that they couldn't."

Carlos' ears are ringing. It is the same ring. It is different—underscored by the chime-sweet echo of a Harrods' cup shattering into shards across his conservatory table.

"And then that—that tea, to continue your metaphor— that tea is left to stain whatever it wishes? Whatever it touches…?"

"No," Earl interjects, with a professional brusqueness to match his stride. "That is where my allegory needs a bit of refinement, I am afraid. That which possesses them bursts free, yes, but those escaped forces are unable to spill wherever they please. Instead, they pour themselves into a home within a descendant of their former host."

"…oh." Despite the very high risk of stumbling and hurting either his body, or his pride (or, potentially, both), Carlos glances up to consider the one before him, straight-backed and composed. The hour has dyed his burgundy cloak a velvety shade of ebony; from behind, the sweep of his silhouette is so strikingly reminiscent of the reapers of lore, Carlos half-expects to see him fingering a scythe. But no—the only sickle in the vicinity is the golden moon, so recently strung in the corner. It dangles decoratively on the lucent end of pearled strings, white and blue with planets and stars. As the word dims, as the billowing smog disperses, the gleam of the cosmos intensifies: glowing light pools, and dribbles, and outlines both the ropey muscles of Earl's shoulders, as well as the growing height of the candies that have taken root in the clearing. As a pair, the two men dip around twin blocks of caramel, each tall enough to be measured against the Scout's elbows. Of course, because it is the stickiest thing in the immediate area, these are what Carlos inevitably trips into.

And, well—it could be worse. The landing is soft, at least, though the Baron does feel a bit like the insects in his ears as he writhes about, grunting, against the surface of the gummy mess. But he is lucky; caramel is less cloying than honey, less molten. He cannot drown in it. Instead, the ripples he creates coagulate, and petrify; they layer like sediment, waves building to a part the likes of which one might read about in the Bible. Carlos is released with an obscene suckling sound. Yet, though he manages to shuck himself free, he finds he still feels caught in a mire. A mental mire. It all smells so… and now, he smells like… and oh, look, there are still a few tacky patches on his upper arm. If he desires to 'want not,' then he must 'waste not,' correct? But, oh. Caramel is so chewy. And Earl had said that he—

Carlos flushes, clearing his throat. Picks off the residual caramel as any other might peel away scabs of dead skin. He wonders if he'll ever again be able to dine in Earl's company. Not that that really matters, right now. God, how could he have been so distracted? This is so much more important than snacking.

"Descendants?" the Scientist repeats, using the single word as an anchor by which to keep himself grounded to the present. He forces focus. It is not as difficult as it had been before; he is learning to think around other distractions. The lingering sting of the insult to his eating hadn't hurt anything, either. Well, in regards to his abilities to concentrate. It _had_ hurt his feelings. But maybe that was the point. His brow furrows into lines as layered as the mille-feuille they'd since passed. "They'd take on another host? Not by choice, I assume. By spell, then? Making it so that they are unable to run rampant?"

"Mmm. Well, not as much as they would've been able to, otherwise," Earl mutters with a mirthless chuckle. Regardless, Carlos is pleased to note that he seems a touch impressed by the ease with which the Scientist is able to keep up, both mentally and physically. It is a good thing, particularly since their voyage seems to be nearing its end; the single slat of brittle that the Baron had earlier utilized had not been unique, much like many of the other treats. As they approach the candy heart of whatever beast they're stalking, the Scientist notes that lumpy slabs of brittle begin to appear in earnest—like arteries, or walkways, cobbling the path to their final destination in a quaintly fairytale fashion. Unfortunately, as per the papers, that fairytale is Hansel and Gretel. The Baron isn't even surprised when he looks up again and finds they are in the yard of a gingerbread house. His leader does not seem overly startled, either. Or even mildly concerned, for that matter. He continues to tromp towards their goal with an easy confidence, his voice level in both tone and volume.

"This… tea set, for lack of a kinder label, is unique. Not in the manner by which they are possessed, but by what it is that possesses them. What lurks within each of their souls is not… complete. They are tainted by lesser fragments of some greater entity."

"The same flush. Servings from a single brew."

"This metaphor is getting out of hand," the Earl snorts, though he doesn't disagree. He does, however, look momentarily thoughtful, cocking his head to the right as he considers either his words or his surroundings. And as he hadn't initially appeared particularly impressed by the dilapidated, one-room shack crafted out of oversized cookie squares, Carlos is inclined to assume that he is contemplating the former. "… though, as it happens, perhaps that is a better way to make my point. The Demon is out of hands. They are hands. They are hands without wrists and wrists without arms and arms without sockets or torsos— they can only act effectively by manifesting within a host body. It was, I can only assume, the plan of the one who first cast the curse to eventually reassemble the pieces of the beast. This task would be made exponentially more difficult were the fragments left to wander freely, so he assured they could only go so far."

The Scientist responds with a low murmur of disapproval. "And to that end, he bound them to specific family lines…" he mumbles, almost directly into the flow of Earl's cape. For while the other continues to saunter, proud and unafraid, towards the nearing door, Carlos is more hesitant; knees bent and posture rigid, he creeps directly behind his guide, peering (as Cecil once had) over the broad of the Scout's shoulders, around the lax drape of his arms. Carlos can't seem to settle—not his heart, or his mind, or his eyes. His gaze darts with hungry fascination, taking in the angles and contours of the hut now before him. A real gingerbread house. Well, a real, functionally scaled gingerbread house. It is not quite so luxurious as the Germans might've painted it, but it is certainly grim: skewed walls of crumbling biscuit, deep brown and oddly dry. It lacks gumdrop decorations or candy button embellishments, but it does appear that the walls have been cemented by an off-white icing. It looks gray, unappetizingly moldy, in the gloom. There is a door—they are standing before it, on a peanut brittle plinth— set in a jutted jamb of shortbread brick. The frosted glass of the single, sugar-spun window seems to have been similarly framed, though that casement is too far to examine from their current vantage point. Just above the wiriest of Earl's ginger curls, the roof begins: angled and slatted with edible shingles. How they haven't grown soggy in the snow is a mystery that Carlos, at any other point in time, might have loved to solve with science. However, at present, the Scout is speaking of other mysteries. And frankly, Carlos doubts that he'll ever receive such forthright answers on this matter again.

"Unfortunately, those lines are now unknown to us," Earl says, with a softness that serves well to showcase remorse, as well as to hide their presence from the monster within the frosted walls. It must be a monster; it really must. Despite what rationality might insist, there are… there are _sounds_ coming from within the shack. Guttural sounds, like deep, retching belches. Inhuman. Or inhumane, at least. Either way, the noise alone is enough to leave Carlos half-gagging in sympathy. The Scout, noting this and frowning mildly, turns from his post at the misshapen door, instead picking his way towards that single, milky window. Not particularly wanting to be left alone on the stoop of a materialized sweets-house in the middle of Epping Forest, the Baron is swift to inch after. They edge together: woolen fabric snarling on the rough crumbs of the wall, their feet crunching and crackling over dislodged dustings of sugar. To the pair's benefit, the gritty popping of the crystals is muffled by a series of fleshy _thud_s from somewhere inside the peculiar abode; though grotesque, the wet _thumps_ do allow for Earl to continues speaking. "Until the fragments manifest—that is, until they have worn their host to the very verge of shattering—, they are nearly impossible to detect. They can slip back into the souls of the possessed, concealing themselves once more, unless somehow caught in their act. This being a typical case of possession, anyway. There are always exceptions."

"Are we… are we dealing with an exception right now?" Carlos breathes, barely trusting himself not to be shrieking over the chattering in his head. In his skull. Is he trembling? He feels like he's trembling. He looks to Earl, almost desperately, to see if he is so affected.

He is not. The Scout shakes his head, measured. Once. "Not right now, no."

"Then what we are facing is…?"

They reach the powdery window. Earl dips low—kneels almost, so that only his eyes can be seen over the ledge. He leaves enough room for the Scientist to join him, so the Scientist does. He squats and shuffles close, his shallow breath rising in silvery loops to match the saccharine swirls of hoarfrost ingrained atop the panes. It's difficult to see through the sweet haze, but he makes every effort: he squints, leans in, and follows the line of the other's slender finger as it gingerly unfurls, like a vine in his conservatory. The conservatory that Carlos is wishing, suddenly and fervidly, that he'd remained in.

_John_. John Peters, the farmer. Beyond the tempered glass, sitting alone in a weathered rocker, is Carlos' old friend, clutching to something small and thin. Rectangular, and flimsy, painted the same series of grays and whites as the man himself. Could it be… a photograph? It might. It might be. It might be photographs that hang in lines along those inner walls too, mounted with affection but blurred beyond recognition. Or it might be something else. It all might be _something else_, because beside the placid John, sorrowful and silent, is another John. A lively one, so vivid and colorful one might think the former an apparition. Or a reflection. Or… a memory? Something that haunts and is haunted, and that seems appropriate, because Carlos knows that he will forever be haunted by the sight before him: of John Peters, the farmer—no, John Peters, the _imposter_— pulling something long and pink and pliant from the gaping mouth of a dark-skinned man.

It's a tongue. It can't be a tongue. Human tongues average at 10 centimeters in length, yet whatever John is yanking from the unhinged orifice of his poor victim is at least a meter, long and lolling. Each tug encourages that _sound _again, the below-the-belly heave that makes Carlos feel like vomiting. But then, most of this scene has Carlos fighting the urge to vomit. Around tattered shoes and blood-splattered knees, the slippery muscle—whatever it is, tongue, esophagus, intestines— coils in veiny violet spools, its textured surface slippery beneath a sheath of saliva. The whole of it oozes, its fluids mixing with something coagulated and coppery. Small kernels, like pomegranate seeds. But instead of fruit, these non-seeds grow flowers; liquid spider lilies blooming in suspended offshoots and crimson streaks, budding from the gummy roots of scattered teeth. Their nebulous petals stain the clarity of the glutinous wet, until all is little more than syrup. Sticky and sweet and rotting.

John is sticky and sweet. Rotting. He is giggling and grinning, his taffy-pull smile folding in fives beneath his eyes. Then sixes. Then sevens, the toffee chew of his flesh pleating around the corners of a smirk that is sharp, but not sharp enough to cut. Or, at least, not sharp enough to cut through caramel. Instead, the impossibly lengthy leer merely shapes the doughy face, leaving deep indentations from chin to ear on either cheek. His sagging wrinkles slip, molasses-slow and just as sweet, down the marzipan mold of his skull. Skin is doubling, tripling over itself. But then, it might not actually be skin anymore.

And in that instant, Carlos realizes something. The cacophony in his head— the insect song that had so disturbed him— it had never been the cry of cicadas, or crickets, or anything with wings. It had always been maggots. Hundreds upon thousands of maggots. Piling. Squealing. Squirming and writhing in stratified layers, one atop the other atop the other, as they gorge themselves on his sanity: their gullets chittering in an insatiable litany as they feast upon the contaminated confection of his brain.

He thinks, for a fleeting instant, that he might scream. But he doesn't. That would get John Peter's attention.

Instead, what gets John Peter's attention is Earl tapping smartly on the window. Rapping, really, while wearing the jovial beam of a child who'd snuck over to play. In the same instant, John and Carlos whip their heads towards him; their gawping expressions are—oddly enough—identical in their depictions of shock.

"Hm? Oh," the Scout says a moment later, with far too much innocence for someone who is, evidently, the devil. On the other side of the window, the farmer—imposter—_creature _is dropping its previous prey, its eyes flashing a vivid, jewel-bright blue. The Baron's eyes are flashing, as well, though perhaps in a manner less literal. Still, his glare is enough to earn him the Earl's attention. "Yes. Apologies. I suppose that was a bit of a surprise, wasn't it? Not to worry, this is all part of my plan."

"And what, _pray tell_, is this damnable plan?!" Carlos hisses, embarrassingly close to hysterics as the heavy reverberation of John's dragging footfalls near the not-so-distant door. Earl seems puzzled by his companion's reaction. Or perhaps he simply can't believe that anyone could be so stupid.

"Well. To use you as bait. _Obviously_," he retorts, rolling his eyes with a huffed little laugh. It is incredulous and black, but tinged with a certain humor… As if this had all been some joke, and Carlos had been extraordinarily thick. And maybe he had.

Or maybe he is.

He definitely is.

With a conspiratorial air, Earl lithely twists himself around. Tips his body forward. Puts his elbows on his knees and his folded hands between them, his freckled nose brushing against Carlos'. A boyish grin lines his features, shallow wrinkles and dimples that flare with a fairy's dark delight.

"It might behoove you to run."

**XXX**


	5. V

**Disclaimer:** It is difficult to describe my ownership in scientific terms, but if I had to pick a word, I would use the scientific term "nope."

**Author's Note:** I'm sure I had something to say, here— some message from a man in a tan jacket, but… Well, I can't seem to remember it now. Bizarre. Ah well. I hope you're all wearing your rubber rainboots, for here there be gratuitous steampunk electricity.

**Warnings:** Blah blah the usual blah. A flower crown for Dangersocks and her invaluable edits. Also, I borrowed some artillery from the Magdalene Order's arsenal.

**XXX**

**A Taste of Something**

**X**

_V_

"And he turned aside to see the carcass of the lion, and behold, there was a swarm of bees in the body of the lion, and honey."

-Judges 14:8

**XXX**

"Master?"

"Darling?"

Willowy fingers sweep and trace. Idle. Musing. An elegantly crooked index, crowned with a tapered nail, skates leisurely over battered spines: books bound in leathers nearly as dark as her skin, and gilded in just as much gold. Beneath her ministrations, the textured tomes of the library purr richly. Winding around the bell of her gown, a black cat is doing the same. Its pluming tail teases at the heavy drape of amber silk-velvet, shedding what appears—almost—to be downy tufts of fur… But the fine and twining wisps that stain her skirts in fading fractal patterns are in fact too insubstantial to be anything other than ebony vapors. The cat's contours smolder oddly, much like the luminous vortex of its eyes. Already attentive and intelligent, the shadowy feline is also very much content as the girl's wandering hand falls atop the detached, lacquered lid of a jewelry box, skimming the head of a black jasper totem set decoratively within its center. A pleasured growl reverberates throughout the whole of the candlelit room, chattering the ancient volumes and humming through her marrow.

Dana smiles. Then she frowns. And then she turns, the bones of her bodice clicking like ivory tokens against the chessboard ledges of the laden shelves. She thinks of old games and playing pieces, the spoils of which are tucked behind her. Her fingers continue to fidget, as if seeking out her next move. The butting nuzzle of an attention-seeking cat beseeches her to seek _it_ out, instead, but the creature's request is respectfully ignored. She laces her hands behind her back, focusing on other little boys.

Khoshekh, recognizing that the human's interests have shifted, wastes no time in changing tactics. He bounds— in parabolic, soundless arcs— from the base of booted feet to the crest of the high-backed armchair that the mistress is so somberly regarding. With an appropriate grace (and a series of evanescent afterimages), the cat leaps upon the shoulder of the man seated within that plush throne, padding and pacing and making plaintive, thunderous little noises in his master's ear. Cecil, with an affectionate coo, responds to the creature's whines by reaching up and scritching beneath his chin. In return, Khoshekh rubs against the Marquis' cheek, pacified. He settles, smoking faintly.

Cecil plucks up a pristine rag and an emerald ring from the box on his desk; Dana, in turn, plucks up the courage to continue, albeit in a language different than the one they had used before.

"_I… I fear that I shall have to beg your pardon preemptively, Sir, for you know me well enough to realize that, however sincere my attempts, I am woefully inexperienced at speaking my mind with any degree of delicacy, let alone the sensitivity that is so prized by many_," she says in this different, more natural tongue, addressing her guardian with the steady earnestness of a young woman spurred by personal truths… as well as the tripping speed of a small girl made anxious by confrontation. Her eyes are set, unwavering with confidence; her posture is impeccable, equal parts poised and plucky. But her companion does not fail to note—as he tosses a curious glance her way—that the right corner of her bottom lip had been seized between her teeth, and she seems to be holding it captive with some anxiety.

"…_oh dear_," the Marquis quietly responds, his retort tainted both by intrigue and some nuanced, private humor. The tone is not patronizing, exactly, but it certainly smacks of an indulgence most frequently utilized by patrons. Brow quirking in amused anticipation, he again sets aside the cloth and the fawny, standing enough to spin his wingchair around. Khoshekh, understandably annoyed at being so rudely jostled, hisses at his inconsiderate humans— a sound which might only be compared to the rusting, ironwork edges of a splintered crucifix raking across the moldering panes of a stained glass window— as he leaps atop the adjacent desk, leaving a vanishing assemblage of mirages in his wake. He then curls sleepily around the lidless box, folding himself against its edges as Cecil folds his knees and half-gloved hands. "_That you should lead with such practiced civility, even in so informal a moment, fills me with far more concern than anything else you may yet be planning to say_."

With the ghost of a smirk (an apparition with just enough presence to haunt), Cecil reaches out for his hesitant charge, palms up in solicitation. The pale, scored lines of fate and life stretch from beneath the sheath of tanned fabric, intersecting nearly at the base of his wrist. Long and ribboning, like ropes. She thinks of shackles, feeling guilty. He notices, and his expression softens all the more.

"You _are_ right to come to me," the Marquis assures his pretty charge. In English this time, coaxing. And though, at first, Dana resists—leaning more fully against the bookcase, clinging to its edges as one might the crags of a cliff— she can never refuse Master Palmer for long. She never wants to. With three long strides, the young woman stands before him: eyes downcast, ringlets bobbing, hands placed daintily atop his own. He shifts, just a fraction, as he always does; her fingers curl around him instinctively, clinging like tiny bird feet to the perch of his hands. His thumbs sweep tenderly over the fragile nubs of her knuckles, and the soothing gesture is further augmented by his declaring, "As ever, sweet, precocious Dana, you are free to tell me anything. Anything at all. So please, dearest one, elucidate me. What foulness of thought has so besmirched my most treasured jewel that she might come to join the other gems in need of cleaning? Will a bit of elbow grease be required to buff her smile back to perfection?"

As he speaks, Cecil releases one of Dana's hands, drawing a lavender silk handkerchief from its home in his breast pocket. A clever flick has the cloth swathed loosely around two fingers, and with it he pokes and scrubs teasingly at the camber of the girl's ruddy cheeks. Startled, she squeaks, mockingly affronted; tickled, she squirms, swatting away her caretaker's playful abuse. The ploy persists until the child cannot help laughing, dipping and ducking and fighting against the insistent tug of their twined hands. Her giggles break the tension; the Marquis breaks into a winning grin. Thus satisfied, Cecil returns his kerchief to its proper place, snares the hand he'd previously released, and pulls both to his lips for a lingering kiss: pressed lovingly against the backs of her mesh-gloved fingers as he waits for his charge to find the breath to continue.

Dana inhales deeply. Bracingly. She sighs, and the exhalation sounds similarly cathartic. Thus prepared, she confesses, "…that Baron."

"The one that you struck?" Cecil clarifies—immediately, and entirely unnecessarily—, as he arches a brow in an innocuously understated sort of way. His is an unassuming sarcasm. Dana's, in contrast, is tangible enough to trip on.

"As I said, I am weak with words."

"That may be true. However, you make your point quite strongly," the Marquis drawls, in a tone tinged by wryness and tacit, bottled mirth. He tries to look disapproving—he should, he knows that, because to reply in any other fashion would be to encourage future violence— but if twelve years with Dana has taught Cecil anything, it is that it is sometimes easier to just let himself laugh. And so he does, in the end: shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. "Well, then. What do you find so disagreeable about our Scientist friend, precious pearl?"

"Oh, I harbor him no ill-will, I assure you," Dana retorts quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly. Her gaze slants, shifting like her feet beneath the curtain of her skirts. The susurration of the young woman's petticoats mimics the rasp of her nerves as she continues, "I merely… Master, I worry for you. I only ever worry for you. This man is a stranger—worse yet, he is presently a victim!— and you are charming him into our world, into our home, spilling secrets that could _kill _should they fall into the wrong hands."

Cecil blinks. His brow arches once more. In fact, the whole of his expression bears a striking resemblance to the sardonic façade he'd worn previously, only now his innocent confusion is in no way an act. "Well, that isn't quite fair, is it?" he reminds a heartbeat later, equable. The backs of his smallest fingers have roosted elegantly beneath the pulse points of Dana's wrists, and through those points of contact he keeps track of her time. For now, she remains steady; his voice matches her rhythm. "The Elfin Knight was a victim before he joined this endless game. As were you, Little Rook."

"But never were we invited!" Dana snaps, with a vehemence that rather catches Cecil off guard. Her heart rate leaps beneath him as her pretty features twist, all calm lost in a sudden storm of emotion. "We _earned_ our places beside you! We fought for them—we fought _you _for them! And I— no, Master, please, do not look at me like that. I do not feel jealous or threatened! I am not a _child_ throwing tantrums in some misguided attempt to garner attention after the arrival of a new brother or… or however I am expected to view this Baron named Carlos. I speak now only because— because— _oh_!"

She struggles, desperate, molars grinding and body rocking. Her only anchor to her ineffable thoughts becomes the Marquis' fond embrace. Waves of frustration break over the smooth of Dana's face; her lifeline-hold on Cecil tenses, and she grips to his fingers in lieu of the words she cannot seem to grasp. Or, possibly, the words she does not want to set free. But if anyone knows the hopelessness of keeping such things caged, it is the Marquis: he cocks his head, concernedly imploring, and that is more than enough to break any lock, to crumble any token resistance. With an unexpected and very sharp cry, the young woman drops both his hands and declares, "It's because this isn't _like_ you! You never act so… so rashly! You are never so forward, so open! You never show such genuine affection to strangers—to _anyone_ outside of Night Vale! And if you are not acting like you, Master, then I have no choice but to assume that you are acting like… like…"

She gestures vaguely, a correspondingly indistinct noise catching in the camber of her throat. Neither sound nor signal indicates much of anything on its own. Still, Cecil understands. Her implications are interpreted in an instant, and answered by a sharp intake of breath. A pale mouth thins in surprise. In hurt.

"…oh, Adana," the Marquis murmurs then, head shaking ruefully as he regards his anxiety-ridden charge. "Surely you know by now where good intentions lead. My own, yours. Young Vythia's, who it might be assumed you visited today…?"

Dana does not answer that. She does not need to. Her silence says enough. The other sighs, the exhalation muted as if by the parentheses pinched into his troubled brow. For a single, gut-wrenching instant, the girl fears she has distressed him irreparably… But he comes apart only at the superficial seams. He unstitches woven legs, patting the cap of his knee; his expression is one of imploring invitation, and she shuffles, if guiltily, towards the summons.

"Little Rook," Cecil rebukes gently— and that is what she is, she realizes, sitting gingerly atop his lap as if she were twelve years younger—, "you have no need to fear for me. Has my discourse with our favorite Earl seemed in any way altered?"

The girl considers. Waffles. She fiddles with the gem around her throat, pointedly toying with its curves as she deliberately avoids his stare. Antsy fingers flick at the simple backing of the tourmaline, candlelight catching in commas and semi-colons atop its surface; Dana tries to organize her thoughts around those stray bits of punctuation, to pull together excuses or reproofs. But in the end…

"No…" the young woman mumbles. Not particularly belligerent, but still bristled with nerves. "It has not."

"What of my interactions with you?"

"You treat me as you always have, Master."

"Of course I have. Because I am still myself, darling," the Marquis assures in tones of boundless affection. A stray knuckle catches beneath the base of her quavering chin, and with the gentlest tweak, Cecil tilts Dana's head—forcing her to meet the brunt of his patient gaze. He braces his other hand against the small of her back, splayed and steadying. Its pressure is a comfort, even through the layers of fabric between them. "You are correct when you accuse me of being less open in the past, less willing to reach out. But human beings are not static things. They are not stone. They change—they improve— under the guidance and influence of those around them. We better ourselves for the sake of others. To deserve those others. To keep those others. And I would like to believe that under our Salamander's guidance, and a certain Jewel's influence, I have become a better person, more deserving of the affections I have been bequeathed. Would you not agree?" he prompts, guilelessly hopeful. Like he is seeking her approval.

Dana wants so badly to give it.

"I would, yet…" she begins—but pauses, abruptly, clamping down hard on her inner cheek when the cords of Cecil's thigh go rigid. Her face pops upward, seeking a reason behind the reaction; the whole of her caretaker has gone statue-still and just as stiff. "Master?" she prompts, startled. Scant inches from her own, his pale eyes shimmer: smooth and silvery as a pair of scrying glasses, and Dana entertains the notion that she could divine his thoughts off of their surface if she tried. But doing so proves unnecessary; no more than a minute after the Marquis' premonition, she catches a tawny flash from the corner of her eye. Feathers beyond panes.

Angbjorn. The hawk darts past the study window, silent as a prayer. Appropriate, as it undoubtedly serves as the embodiment of one.

There is no time to waste. Cecil shifts beneath his charge, and Dana jumps to her feet. Jumps out of the way. The Marquis is standing not an instant later, moving with a speed and precision that borders the extraordinary. Or, perhaps, borders the eerie. Baubles and bands are returned to their box, and said box is returned to the shelf. Khoshekh, his spine arching into an onyx bow of static and haze, is quick to leap after that chest—quicker still to leap _into _it. As the lid is reset with a spell and a signal, the ethereal cat dives towards the talisman that serves as a pseudo handle; he is swallowed by the square-based amulet with no more than a sonorous shriek of non-sound and an imploding burst of ether. Eyes of buffed jasper flash, molten beneath the superficial clefts of an unbroken surface.

The Marquis' eyes flash, too. With a different fire, perhaps, but one no less intimidating. The glare of it lessens only when it falls upon a fretting Dana, her flecked gaze shrewd and her full lips pursed. Cecil binds a leather satchel to his hip, slips a freshly-polished jade token into his pocket, and with matching swiftness— but far more tenderness—, steals a hand around Dana's slender neck: pulls her nearer and dips himself down (much less dramatically than once was necessary) so as to stamp an affectionate kiss to her crown.

"I apologize, beloved," he murmurs into her hairline, gloved hands tangling in loose ringlets as he cradles the back of her head. "I fear I must away. Please keep within the manor walls until your brother or I return."

Another kiss—upon the tresses of her temple, this time— and the Marquis is out the door. He vanishes with the grace of a distant meteor: pale and bright and gone. In his wake, Dana remembers the shooting stars of her youth, sought in midnight gardens and during infrequent camping trips. She made wishes upon them (upon _him_) when she was little. She knows better now.

She knows better, but…

"…I would agree, Master, on all accounts except one," Dana sighs into the rosy hush, speaking to a chair that now holds no one. Somehow, the absence of a judge does not make this confession any easier. Nonetheless, she whispers, "Stones change too. They erode, and they weaken, where humans grow stronger. And I fear… I fear that by enabling you to forget what you are, the three of us will end up with great volumes of blood on our hands."

She swallows, regarding herself. Regarding her tourmaline. Regarding the room and its sentient treasures, as if awaiting their conviction in place of the Marquis'. And yes, these walls do talk: they groan beneath the weight of the wind, they hiss through toothless, secret mouths. They shudder—hangings chattering— with what might be snickers, or could be sobs. Something settles within the Dark Box, its clatter acquiescent. The scattered candles gutter, their wick-tips nodding in ambiguous agreement.

Or perhaps they're merely waving, politely bidding the intruder goodbye. For like the darkness which follows all falling stars, Dana is soon out the door, as well.

**X**

Science—or, at least, the science in which Carlos specializes—is generally a sedentary job. He peers through microscopes, processes fragile glass slides, and rifles gingerly through libraries in an unending quest for research material. There is very little walking involved, much less Running For One's Life. His boots lack the traction, and his muscles the stamina. In his defense, there have been very few opportunities to practice blindly scrambling over the gentle inclines of a moor, dodging mounds of fudge and boulders of rock candy. Frankly, the Baron has little history of "scrambling" at all, and in light of this, he is willing to admit that he is probably a touch out of shape. Not to mention graceless. In his mind, these data points cumulate to a finite conclusion, and that is that the whole of this charade has been contrived at his expense. It is an extravagant punishment for some unknown offense, another ploy to embarrass the already disgraced Baron. It is an opportunity to mock him.

Earl's incredulous, judgmental shouts serve only to verify this theory.

"Sir, my apologies! It was presumptuous of me to assume that English was your mother tongue! Do you require a working definition of what it means to _run?_" the Scout hollers from somewhere in the vicinity of the abandoned gingerbread house, now a few rods behind Carlos' back. In his mind, he pictures the redhead leaning casually against the window ledge, arms and legs crossed in the smugly sardonic matter of a street thug. He follows up that dalliance by pretending to throttle the bastard, but can only indulge in the fantasy for half an instant. It takes too much energy, and he must focus on fleeing.

There is a trundling behind him: measured and slow and yet somehow still inhumanly fast. Heavy feet— and other, rubberier _things_— are being dragged over the rutted landscape, through a powdery whiteness that appears to be half sugar and half snow. It glows shades of spectral blue in the light of something that is too strong to be from the stars, too fickle to be from the moon. A greater blackness pools beneath the Scientist in its wake; the surge of it befuddles him, throwing off his perception of depth. Carlos trips over his own shadow as if it were a physical thing, palms grinding against icy grit as he falls.

He hears a _crack_. It does not seem to come from his bones, so the Baron pays it no more mind.

"Come, now!" an unseen Earl prompts, the words an intimate whisper that resonate from somewhere beside the Baron. Somewhere that the Scout most definitely is not. The thrown voice scoffs in exasperation as Carlos picks himself back up—clutching a stitch in his side, tasting something glutinous and coppery on the back of his tongue—only to stumble _again_ over a rooted knot of licorice. He lands harder, knee caps juddering. There is another sharp sound, like a sledgehammer brought down upon a marble altar. The deafening blow reverberates through the packed earth, through his bloated stomach; his innards churn, somersaulting over one another. Bile shoves against his uvula. He feels acutely as if he'd eaten a five-course meal and had then been coerced into a race—shotgun start and all. Adrenaline fizzles, effervescent and sweet as champagne. He's drowning in it. He quaffs the thin air, yet all his lungs can do is seize, faring no better than his belly. He imagines those sundry organs as pock-ridden taffy, as deflated candy balloons, rubbery and shriveled in the overheated furnace of his chest. His every wheeze is shallow, the oxygen accomplishing little more than stoking the choking fires. He spares another precious instant to mentally choke the Scout, too, as the other adds, "If you must, pretend you've spotted someone swooping in to purchase the last electrical torsion balance machine! Chase them down!"

The very gall.

"I do _not_ require carrot-on-a-stick motivation at present, thank you!" Carlos snaps, albeit breathlessly, in the general direction of the infuriating voice. His head is pounding, spinning—literally, as well as figuratively, as he tries to turn a glower upon the damnable man who got him into this mess in the first place. "I am feeling quite inspired enou—!"

He gasps. The graveled retort erodes into a quibbling silence as the Baron's glare falls not upon the distant Earl, but instead the lumbering hominoid mutation that is suddenly, _somehow_, directly behind him. The Scientist falters at the prospect of calling it—him— _John Peters, _or whatever is left of the farmer— human. It wears a suit of skin, perhaps, but it is ill-fitted and lumpy, bulbous in inexplicable places and flat in others. He thinks, strangely, of bubbles on the surface of melted sugar, of sweeties in the final stages of production. Not quite finished, but still obviously unfit for sale. Rejected lollies, broken brittle; the creature's candy-coated shell has fractured like cast marzipan, fissuring in radial patterns from points of pressure and force. From _shots_. The casing of one such bullet remain stuck to the toffee surface of his non-flesh, glinting like mercury in the bioluminescent glow that emanates from somewhere beneath those cobwebbed chinks.

"Carrots…" rasps the once-man. Rasps from too many places. For while logic dictates that Carlos should see only a single mouth— misshapen and far too elastic, perhaps, but only the one— those unhappy snarls seem to tumble from at least a dozen more. Toothless mouths. Or once toothless, anyway. Having been rudely interrupted, John hadn't the time to refasten the shirt he'd half-opened, and it is slipping. Tearing. Beneath that fleshy flaps of falling fabric are not the stains of shadows, as the Scientist had first thought, but instead craggy crevices of a different sort. Twitching, as if muscled. Profound and empty. Abysses. _Maws_. Ringed by gummy scar tissue in the shape of chapped lips, into which mismatched, stolen teeth have been artlessly jammed. Wind—or breath—or _both_ whistle through the gaps in those unnatural jaws, their jagged corners climbing the withered cambers of John's chest. His torso is splitting apart in parodies of simpers and scowls. "You should have tried my carrots… tomatoes, eggplants. This year's peapods were so crisp…"

The bags beneath one of his unnervingly blue eyes sags. And sags. And continue to sag, until the pleating skin is quivering along the edge of his grizzled chin, oozing over the bristles of his beard. Carlos wishes, desperately, that his joints did not feel equally liquescent. The whole of him is a sloshing mess. His bowels have become water, and he is bitingly, blisteringly aware of the wet burning in his eyes—the sheen of something like sorrow collecting in their corners, spilling in a single, smoldering stream.

"What the hell_ are_ you…?" the Baron manages, more in pity than in fear. Because that voice—even if it comes from the countless orifices of this gelatinous _monster_ before him—still belongs to the green grocer who had been so proud to share his little plums. That voice is John Peters', even if the rest of It isn't. And if John Peters is somehow inside of that _thing_, he is no doubt more terrified than Carlos could ever be. "Or should I say, where _from _hell are you? And what have you done with my friend?!"

The sharp of the command catches the manifested demon off guard. For that matter, it catches Carlos off-guard. Unfortunately, it is not the only thing that does so.

In that same instant, something sprouts from the not-man. Something fat, yet flat. Flexible and far too long. Like the first vines of spring from beneath the crust of the earth, lolling tongues push to freedom: textured and slippery, unfurling in spools and spirals from the centers of interspersed crevasses. Prehensile, purple things, they undulate from beneath shirt cuffs and necklines, burst past buttons and flick over pilfered teeth. Carlos' mind nearly short-circuits when he realizes he can count distinct _ranges_ of raised taste-buds, their topography highlighted and shadowed in shades of indigo-azure. The wraithlike radiance pulsing underneath the creature's borrowed skin-suit blazes with cold fire, its glare enveloped in a halo of mercury moonlight. Two tongues waggle, as if with laughter. Four others preen. Another three dart towards the Baron at speeds he could never hope to clock, coiling in oily loops around his ankle, his chest, his shoulder. Before he can even think to scream, Carlos is bound as if in sodden, velvet ropes, and hoisted with supernatural ease into the eventide. Something with the grit and consistency of silt swipes against his cheek, and he is left colder than ever in the slobbery wake of it.

Carlos makes a token effort to thrash against his bindings, but he is smart enough to realize the futility of doing so. He thinks of papers he's read, theses about quicksand and pitcher plants, and stills himself as much as possible. He shouldn't waste his energies. He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't be listening to this, shouldn't be allowing himself to _believe _any of this. And yet, the Baron finds himself tipping forward—as far as he is physically capable— and making faces at his captor. Inscrutable expressions, tinged with disgust and numb fear and some twisted brand of curiosity. Rather than allow himself to descend into madness, the Scientist finds himself trying to deduce (for the sake of his trade) whether he should be looking at the speaking mouth, or the ones holding him aloft, or into the melting face scant inches below his own.

"What have I done…?" an unoccupied orifice echoes, in that same unfamiliar, yet too-familiar voice. Carlos winces as the grate of it claws at his ears. Shudders as the sandpaper of the mutation's tongues slither, restless and serpentine, under and over and around and through. The maggots in his mind are screeching, piercingly, singing contentedly within this cocoon of jelly-strips. Their cries resonate, attuning to the monster's drawl, "I have not done anything. I _am _John Peters. You know. The farmer. I have always been John Peters. I have been John Peters longer than he has been John Peters. I have never not been him. He has never not been me. I am what was always waiting, like a seed beneath the soil. Like roots within loose earth. Like a photograph developing in darkness… I am the photo-finish that the photo took away."

One of the mouths—curled downward from shoulder blade to navel—sneers with satisfaction. Another, cut from sternum to armpit, wears a grin of triumphant delight. Yet another (stretched awkwardly from the small of his back, looping up and around the slats of gaunt ribs) seems contradictorily put-out, pouting around the swath of a tongue. Carlos observes all of this, and still cannot stop his eyes from darting towards the distant hut. Within the gloom, its shortbread trimming has been painted a decaying shade of gray; its window glints like caramelized crystal, and he knows that behind it he might catch another glimpse of…

The Scientist forces himself to look away. Doing so is oddly easy. He feels no yearning, no hunger for those pastry walls. Perhaps that is because he can see it for what it is, now. It is not a trap to lure stupid children. It is a prison to hold a witch.

"But why?!" Carlos demands, chest aching from more than just his sinewy fetters. Unable to stop himself, unable to resist, he flails. He wiggles. He kicks his dangling, leaden feet, but they land against nothing, and that somehow leaves him more frustrated than ever. Fury bubbles up from within the Baron, bursting upon the surface of his thoughts like erupting boils; his innards are a pot of molasses left to simmer, quick to boil violently over. He feels violent. He wants to claw his own face off, but settles for spitting in John's. "Why now, you bloody glock?! I have known John since I was a boy! What changed?! Why would he— _no_, why would _you_—why would you do _any_ of this?!"

The maggots are chewing, squeaking. Squealing. They are not alone in doing so. Hissing in harmony with the brain-worms, the creature scrubs at the residue of Carlos' disapproval as if his captive had just spat acid.

"They weren't using them anyway!" It shrieks, defensive, Its features taking on a violet hue. Its glow intensifies; the Baron is bodily jostled as the puppet of John Peters' corpse stamps Its feet in a fashion that is somewhere on the spectrum between peeved and puerile. Countless, shifting orifices begin to make their case, screaming as one and as many and all at the same time. "Their teeth! I needed teeth. I can't speak without them! I don't have a voice. I need my Voice! I need it! Need my body. I needed teeth! I need to put myself back together, and I needed teeth, and they were squandering theirs! Letting them decay by guzzling so much saccharine poison and why let them go to waste? I took them. I took them because they weren't taking my produce! My farm! My poor farm. All that food, that good food, rotting! I couldn't let anything else go to rot. I couldn't let that organization take anything more. I needed teeth. I need you! Beautiful, perfect. I'm very into science. I want science very into me. So I need you in my mouth. I need you all over me. I _need_ _your teeth_!" the manifestation concludes with an otherworldly yowl, tongues and arms and candy-putty fingers grasping greedily for its captured prize—

"And I need you to put the good Scientist down, if you please," a cool voice drones over the click of a revolver. "Or if you _don't_ please."

_BANG_.

The explosion rips through the gossamer pall of the late winter air, bouncing off the underpinning of stars and chattering through Carlos' jawbone. In an instant, his fleshy bindings slacken; he falls as the creature does, its blue, blue eyes wide and unseeing as it crumples. There is another _bang_, but duller, deeper, as their tangled bodies land. John's cadaver seeps ruddy syrup from the hole where its ear had been, spilt secretions pooling in coagulated tendrils. Thick and sticky, like so many jumbled, now-flaccid tongues. Something kicks at those spongy shackles with the jerk-twitch ferocity of all perfunctory reactions. It takes the Baron a moment to realize that the legs which beat the bulbous bondage away are his own. With effort, he manages to calm his limbs. He is less successful with his heart.

"Are you all right?" asks someone—asks _Earl_—directly beside his own ear. Actually beside it, this time. Such softness on the tail of so much shouting is almost as disconcerting as anything else he'd so recently suffered; Carlos cannot stop himself from flinching, as if this subdued murmur hailed a new threat. But the Scout is not a threat, the Scientist reminds himself. He's not.

Well. Not now, anyway.

Carlos levels the flattest glare he can muster in the direction of his crouched and smirking companion, happy to pretend that his fingers are _not_ trembling beneath the pooling overlay of the other's crimson cloak. The itch of its worn wool is so exquisitely grounding he could cry. He could, but he won't. "I am thrilled to learn that leaving me to die was not also a part of your plan," the Baron drones instead, allowing himself to be helped to his feet. Not that he's forgiven the other for his tricks, but it's either accepting assistance or the indignity of rolling; the jelly of his knees has yet to coagulate, and his wobbling legs would hardly support his weight. The silver lining, if there is one, is that Earl's obvious sense of self-satisfaction has imbued him with some extra patience. Ginger and gentle, he helps heft Carlos to a stand— deftly, without comment or quip—, and supports him across the lawn for the length of an entire meter.

Exactly one meter. Which, in Carlos' uneducated opinion, does not seem _nearly_ far enough away from the eldritch horror that had so recently attempted to gut him. But his grunts of protest go unheeded as the Scout settles him atop a patch of fuzzy moss, turning his attentions once more towards their quarry. Their quarry, who—despite having been shot clean through the head—is not yet dead. Instead, the molting husk of a human is starting to twitch in the grass… Weakly at first, like the final vestiges of life being flicked from the fingertips of a corpse. But rather than grow weaker, those twitches gradually morph into jerks: hinge joints flapping like broken wings. They beat about, helpless, and soon—the Scientist suspects—they will evolve into full-blown seizures, leaving the monster to whip about like a rag doll caught in a strangely stationary cyclone.

Earl snorts, and the Baron's attentions become his again.

"Of course I would not let you die. I take great pride in how few I've lost on missions since finding myself a Scout Master. It is not a record I plan on besmirching today," he tells his charge, crossing again the distance between Carlos and the partly-flayed creature. His cape billows about in a wailing wind, but it is the only part of him that wavers. All other movements are instilled with an enviable confidence. He twists his head around, profile charted by an unnatural combination of light: stars and moon and demon, yes, but something else, now, too. Something golden. "And before you ask," the Scout is swift to add— conversational almost, the previous, somber edge of his tone superimposed with a wryness that has his companion bristling on instinct, "yes, _that _bullet was special. Loaded with holy water. Tonight's prey is a devil of Christian origins, and so our arsenal has been tailored to suit our needs. It is with utmost sincerity that I thank you for distracting our friend John while I set the Sacred Barrier and prepared the Sealing Spell."

Earl grins again, his own covetable teeth glinting amethyst in the colorful amalgam of radiance. That same luminescence catches off a length of dark metal trapped within his right hand; a revolver, Carlos recognizes with a jolt. And not just any revolver: a Calvary standard Colt Single Action Army, the sort popular in the Colonies. Even through the clinging shadows, the Baron can see that the pistol is well-cared for, frequently polished, so the nicks and cuneiform scratches visibly corkscrewing up its long barrel are no doubt there on purpose. He watches those archaic symbols glint forebodingly as light skims the gun's metallic exterior, caressing its curves but too timid to dip into the dark of the sigils. It's just as well; a moment later, and the weapon has been holstered again, leaving the ghostly gleam to chase after its next plaything. Carlos' eyes move to follow it, but instead land upon its source.

A cross. A cross that has been set within the ground. Rather, four crosses have been driven down, creating a luminous fifth by their placements. Each spike is small enough to be the gravestone of a newborn: cylindrical and long, molded together from rounded tubes of gold, capped in brass. Their segments and centers are bound in tight, transecting loops of copper wire, carefully woven to frame what appear to be small portholes. They make Carlos think of gauges. Maybe they are? Behind the heavy glass, he can see something viscid burbling, draining into the earth; more holy water, he surmises. It would make sense. Water is as conductive as the blessed metals from which the crosses are constructed, and electricity seems key. Even now (_without a source_; Carlos can hardly believe it!) lightning is fulgurating. Horizontal fractals bound between the closest pair of pegs, while Lichtenberg figures leap vertically between the second set. The overall effect is to leave a blazing suggestion of a crucifix against the frosted ground, with the monster bound and vulnerable upon its shadowed laths.

That, at least, explains why a meter is sufficient distance. And though Carlos might still be more comfortable with a good kilometer between himself and the monster, proximity does afford him the chance to observe whatever might happen next.

At the base of the crackling cross, a thick circle has been carved: meticulously gouged into the icy dirt. Its circumference is large enough for a man to lie comfortably, if slightly curled, within it; its boarders have been decorated with the same intricate and disturbingly off-putting language that twines the barrel of the Scout's hidden Colt, as well as a series of interconnected loops and lines and cyphers that Carlos could never hope to read by his own power. Still, other readings have made him astute enough to recognize alchemy when it is performed directly in front of him. _Alchemy. _

The Scientist has upwards of one thousand questions that he is dying to pose. It is only through great effort of will that he manages to swallow them back—for now, at least—as he watches Earl step within the boundaries of the elaborate pentacle. The Baron holds his breath; the Scout, he notes, is holding a cerulean stone.

"_Hear my prayer, Lord; let my cry for help come to You_," the Scout commands into the night, in a voice that thunders over the screams of lightning, maggots, man. The gem he holds— opaque, yet corded with fibrous filaments of oceanic crystal— has been hewn into a faceted quadrilateral shaped like a kite. As if it were a chunk of stained glass, it has been fitted perfectly into the window of space between Earl's fingers: the intersected slats of his index and middle, lifted first to his heart, then his throat, then his mouth. His lips press against the jewel with a reverence lost upon the Baron; Earl then thrusts his arms before him, legs braced, as he continues reciting his prayer. "_Do not hide Your face from me when I am in distress. Turn Your ear to me; when I call, answer me quickly. For my days vanish like smoke; my bones burn like glowing embers. My heart is blighted and withered like grass; I forget to eat my food. In my distress I groan aloud and am reduced to skin and bones. I am like a desert owl, like an owl among the ruins. I lie awake; I have become like a bird alone on a roof. All day long my enemies taunt me; those who rail against me use my name as a curse. For I eat ashes as my food and mingle my drink with tears because of Your great wrath, for You have taken me up and thrown me aside. My days are like the evening shadow; I wither away like grass. But You, Lord, sit enthroned forever; Your renown endures through all generations. You will arise and have compassion on Zion, for it is time to show favor to it; the appointed time has come. For its stones are dear to Your servants; its dust moves them to pity_."

The breeze has begun to pick up again. But with purpose, this time. Paced, peculiar gusts: double-helixes that coil, great and glowing, around the perimeter of the pared circle. Earl's cloak has taken to fluttering again, his curls mussed and shining in the smoldering radiance of the Sacred Barrier, the demon's indigo translucence, and the lustrous shimmer that has begun to puddle in the deepest of the pentacle's sigils. Navy to cobalt to cerulean, the gradient glimmering heaves and gushes and floods the enclosure, pulsing with the same brightness as the gem held fast between the Scout's fingers. Sans the flurry of pale lashes against the bones of freckled cheeks, the Earl remains as steady as a stone himself. A pillar of sorts. He continues, booming over the earsplitting soundlessness of the light:

"_The nations will fear the name of the Lord, all the kings of the earth will revere Your glory. For the Lord will rebuild Zion and appear in His glory. He will respond to the prayer of the destitute; He will not despise their plea. Let this be written for a future generation, that a people not yet created may praise the Lord: 'The Lord looked down from His sanctuary on high, from heaven He viewed the earth, to hear the groans of the prisoners and release those condemned to death.' So the name of the Lord will be declared in Zion and His praise in Jerusalem when the peoples and the kingdoms assemble to worship the Lord. In the course of my life He broke my strength; He cut short my days. So I said: 'Do not take me away, my God, in the midst of my days; Your years go on through all generations. In the beginning You laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of Your hands. They will perish, but You remain; they will all wear out like a garment. Like clothing You will change them and they will be discarded. But You remain the same, and Your years never end. The children of Your servants will live in Your presence; their descendants will be established before You!_'"

The wind is screaming, now. Streaming. John is doing the same. As vowels blur and consonants blend, the creature's contours dissolve into a series of wispy, smudged streaks—like watercolors smeared beneath the sweep of a careless hand. In the distance, a house of slanted gingerbread and its bloated lawn of sweetmeats has started to contort, and stretch, and flicker, wavering in ways that Carlos has only ever before ascribed to heat mirages. He shivers in the chill. The images sputter. The monster mimics its home. The tentacles of its tongues joggle frantically, fearfully, countless mouths suckling at the air in some final, fruitless effort to remain suctioned to the ground. It is no use.

Earl's voice drops low, with the finality and sharpness of a guillotine.

"_Amen._"

The stone between his fingers flares dazzlingly, its edges hazed by the coronal intensity of a star. Of a sun. Of a supernova_: _an entire heliotrope cosmos surrendering to death. Its brilliance expands past the frame of Earl's extended hands, swallowing him down to his elbows. It pulsates once, its luster impossibly vivid—and then the jewel's inner radiance_ implodes_, collapsing into a blinding, obsidian whorl of nothingness. A void in its purest form. Gravity hungrily sucks at the monster, dragging it into the chasm of its vortex, and for half a moment, the whole of existence swirls before Carlos. Like water being slurped down a drain, the terrible _spiral_ of it all has his eyes jamming, his senses reeling, his brain on the precipice of hysteria or insanity as his bowels convulse around the urge to _vomit_—

"Sir Scientist."

Carlos jumps. Straightens. His lashes snap open on instinct; as soon as he realizes his body's betrayal, he braces himself to throw up—or worse…

But whatever madness had swallowed the clearing has passed without consuming him. It is over. All of it is— all of it has— well. All has returned to calm. To nature. The hut and its haunted window have vanished; even the crumbs are gone, as if gobbled by the starving. Or the crows. The wintery ground remains littered, yes, but with pebbles and roots and frosted greenery. The only hints of what had occurred in this place can be read upon the bodies left behind. Carlos' body, tender with blooming bruises; the slumped, inverted body of a stranger, lying in an unmoving heap a few rods in the distance; the insensible body of John Peters— once a farmer, now less than human— prone and faintly smoking, his orifices oozing sucrose. Earl's body, too, bears traces of their misadventure, noticed when the Baron finally turns his face towards him. Finally manages to respond.

"Honorable Earl."

His voice, when he remembers how to use it, is hoarse. Almost inaudibly so. But still, Carlos can _hear_ it— hear each imperfect crack of his own enflamed vocal cords, every thrum and swollen vibration. His mind is quiet. Blissfully, disconcertingly quiet. It's almost frightening. He focuses on other things. The soreness of his bones. The rustle of barren branches. Earl.

The Scout is dappled in sweat, now, despite the bitter chill. His youth and strength are draining through the creases that time has worn into his brow, as if the withered lines are literal fissures. The man's exertions have aged him beyond his years, if temporarily; his weariness is just shy of palpable. But for all of this (and despite the Scientist's personal views on the subject of religion), Carlos cannot help thinking that— for this moment, anyway— Earl resembles some incarnation of Uriel and the warrior angels, sanctified in the fading light of his blessed circle.

A peaceful gust cards through shining tresses, rippling the hem of a scarlet mantle; the Scout's eyes, as he opens them, glint a russet-apple red beneath the rice paper hood of his lids. His features are dissected by the steeple of his fingers, palms pressed together in pious prayer. Carlos is not sure when he'd moved his hands—during the explosion, presumably— but there is no doubt in the Baron's mind that the stone he'd held is now cloistered between them, beautiful and dangerous. Something to be handled with utmost care.

Or so he assumes, anyway. At least, until Earl lobs it casually in his direction.

"Ah!" Startled, feverish, the Scientist scrambles back and forth upon his aching rear, desperately reaching outward. He need not have worried; Earl's aim is true. Within a beat, the gem lands heavily in the cradle of the Baron's hands: a solid weight, much more tangible, more _real_,than the monster now-confined within its crystal had seemed. But for all of the jewel's calculable heft, it feels oddly… insubstantial. Abnormally so. Paranormally so? Carlos can liken it only to a riddle he'd heard in his youth—something about a kilogram of feathers and a kilogram of bricks. Despite their opposing masses, they balance out to zero when set upon a scale.

This gem is feathers and bricks, balanced out to zero. Carlos regards the jewel inquisitively, lifting it to squinting eyes as Earl steps gingerly from his lifeless pentacle.

"This is…?"

"Blue apatite," Earl answers, not bothering to wait for the rest of the question. It's just as well; Carlos isn't entirely certain what he would've asked. "It is known as a Stone of Manifestation. Its properties include the clearing of negativity, promotion of humanitarianism, and suppression of hunger. It may further interest you to know that the gem itself shares the same mineral compound as animal teeth." The Scout clicks his own as he offers a thin smile. Carlos hears himself gulp, unable to keep his free hand from rubbing at his jaw. The jewel twinkles innocently. "It is a simple process, if one ignores the pomp and ceremony of it all. You are aware of the language of flowers, undoubtedly. Gemstones are less conversational, perhaps, but they do carry within them intrinsic meanings and powers. This makes them very convenient, portable cells for wayward monsters."

"Like prehistoric insects incased in amber?" the Scientist queries, trying to liken the procedure to something he might understand. Earl, to his credit, gives the analogy proper consideration.

"The same idea, yes," he then decrees, knees creaking audibly as he stoops to pry those cross-shaped spikes from the ground. Each peg comes free with a grunt; the Scout slips them nimbly behind his back, where Carlos imagines he has some unseen holster. A utility belt gives a muffled jingle beneath the bolts of his burgundy cloak, its sweep hiding so many mysteries. "Though in practice, it is much less physiological than that. Exorcism reduces monsters and demons to their base components: personified fears, ill wishes, incarnated sin, etcetera. Whatever concept or mutated belief acts in lieu of a soul. It is those sentiments that the gem absorbs, rather than a body."

That makes sense. John's corpse, after all, is still wetly deflating in the vicinity of their feet. The Baron hums to show that he follows, grateful for the piecemeal explanation. These revelations are easier to swallow in bite-sized chunks. Like the man of science that he is, Carlos mulls on this latest piece of the overall puzzle, examining it from all angles; he turns the apatite over and over, over and over, between his fingers, desperate for his microscope. Or a magnifying glass—that would do. Something, _anything_, to help him peer past what his flimsy eyes can perceive.

And while he's on the subject of wishing, a scale would be lovely, too. Like in the riddle. He imagines that he can sense something settling within the stone that he holds, but in a manner less like feathers or bricks and more like water. Some liquid being poured, even now, into a tall glass… As the minutes pass, Carlos notes that the stone feels heavier against his palm—as if the cup is half-full. The fluid still flows. To measure this change as it happens would be fascinating.

"To what end?" he asks then. Lightly, as his attentions remain primarily upon the rock. Within its five flat faces, the Scientist can almost spot a sixth: a silhouetted outline in a smoggy mirror, sketched in strands of sapphire and turquoise and aquamarine. Moonbeams trip in shades of silver over the cracks within the stone, casting monochrome rainbows; Carlos tilts the apatite back and forth again, wondering if that chink near his index had always been so predominant. "What point is there in using precious stones?"

The Scout is toeing at his circle now. The gingerbread house gone, the Sacred Barrier having been cleared, the pentacle is all that remains of the supernatural, and Earl is very efficiently blotting it into oblivion. "The positive properties of the jewel help to counteract the negative qualities of the creature we place within it," he explains, albeit in tones of half-distraction. He has taken to brushing about powdery patches of snow, so that there is no longer a single, suspicious ring of earth visible in the clearing. Which, Carlos admits, is likely an important step when one wishes to remain an inconspicuous monster hunter, but he personally finds the two corpses a bit more worrisome. He says nothing, though. Provoking Earl will do him no good in the long run. As a reward for his restraint, he is further told: "Together, they reach a sort of inescapable equilibrium. The gem becomes a prison of neutrality. If properly cared for, this will be enough to keep the creature contained forever."

_Equilibrium_. The word resonates oddly through Carlos' mind, triggering something close to an alarm. That invisible, ethereal liquid hasn't stopped. The jewel in his grasp is distinctly denser now—a cup on the verge of spilling over. _A teacup. _The fracture which had begun beside his finger has forked, gaining another, nearly-imperceptible centimeter… And now he can see nothing but the spider web that's formed, creeping further-outward on diaphanous threads. The smile of the moon splinters behind the lens of the jewel, its light broken into sharp shards.

Carlos' heart has returned to pounding in earnest. Trembling fingers set the gem in the grass, and he skids— slowly, inelegantly— away from it, still on his behind.

"And you're… You're quite certain of its safety?" he poses as he does so, very much hoping that what he feels is no more than residual paranoia. He would much rather be harassed for his cowardice than consider the alternative. Because the alternative is… "There is no chance that the beast might break free, is there?"

Earl, having turned his back to complete other tasks, twists just enough to grace his companion with the sight of an incredulously lifted eyebrow. "Why would you even ask such a… ?" he begins, baffled to the point of being affronted—

Only to freeze, eyes widening to saucers as they land upon the metaphorical teacup. The literally splitting stone. In an instant, he has dropped the piney branches he'd been in the midst of collecting. Carlos presumes for a funeral pyre. He also presumes that this plan has been put on hold, what with how John's eyes have snapped to a glassy open and Earl is throwing the full of his body towards the Baron. The man's arm catches the Scientist painfully around the middle; he is winded even before an atomic eruption sends them soaring.

Carlos is not sure if he screams.

The trees are screaming. That he knows. Their wooden arms rake at the sky, at themselves, at each other, scrabbling and screeching in impassioned anguish as a violent _blast _nearly breaks their countless spines. They bend away from the edge of the clearing, snow whipping through their tangled fingers like sloughed scales of human skin. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe that's what it's always been. His thoughts— and the heathlands— corkscrew and tumble, end-over-end and not just because he and the Earl are in the midst of plummeting. No: the vortex that had so recently been closed has viciously ripped itself once more into reality, reversing its current and spewing Hell back into the mortal realm. Maelstroms of ravenous yowls further fray the edges of the breached void, the wind and wails tearing equally at Carlos' sanity. He is going to die, he realizes. Worse than that—he is going to lose is mind, left drooling and dumb. His brain is sputtering, white and black, off and on, flickering like the ground and sky and stars and plants and—

"_Omph_!"

The only thing that saves him, the Baron later thinks, is the head-clearing _agony_ of slamming, back-first, into the unyielding trunk of an oak. Something is smashed, but it doesn't seem to be his body. Something howls, but Carlos cannot hear it over the rushing in his ears. He is dazed; he is floating. Or he feels like he is, despite having been intimately reacquainted with the ground. The Scientist could giggle. He's sure he must hurt everywhere, but that pain isn't registering right now. Nothing is, really. It's nice. As he'd had no oxygen left to lose, the only thing the impact had managed to force from him were his thoughts; his mind is as spotty as his vision, and all things considered, it is a rather restful turn of events. For a full minute, Carlos finds he is physically incapable of panic. And during that minute, Carlos calms enough to collect himself. To stave away lunacy.

How ironic that the price for retaining stability should be an even larger concussion. Received, of _course, _just as he'd begun to recover. The Baron feels again that he might laugh… Or that he _would_, if anything about this were funny. But the adrenaline rush of temporary asphyxiation is draining away, and it's leaving him icy-cold and rattled; he draws in burning gasps like a man on the cusp of drowning, his throbbing chest palpitating in the wake of the shallow, desperate sobs. Breath returns slowly, in hiccups and huffs. He can feel his nails grinding roughly into pliant flesh, and wonders stupidly why his brain hasn't yet processed the sting of the grip.

Then he hears the groan beside him.

"Earl!" Carlos chokes, prizing his fingers—with effort— from the sprawled Scout's forearm. His companion's landing had not nearly been as fortunate as his own, if one could call crashing into a tree fortunate. Earl had collided mostly with the forest floor: a crumpled collection of limbs slumped over the girth of raised roots. His cloak has snarled in stray twigs; his face, when he manages to lift it, bears a long strip of raw, blood-speckled flesh— as if his cheek had been scoured against a grate. He coughs, the sound excruciatingly guttural, before spitting something scarlet and clotted into the distance. Carlos watches, morbidly fascinated, as the film of dazed confusion clears from the Scout's eyes. The broader man untangles his arms, whips his head back in the direction from which they'd flown, and—

There is a pounding that's been thudding through the Scientist's body, shaking it with a rhythm that gains speed and power as the situation becomes clear. But as each shudder intensifies, juddering the ground as much as his marrow, Carlos begins to lose his certainty that the quaking's epicenter is somewhere internal. What he _is _certain about is that he should definitely _not look behind him_.

"_Shit_," Earl hisses, scrambling fully to his feet. His look of wide-eyed horror is enough. Enough to make the gravity of their situation clear, anyway, as well as inspire a similar expression from Carlos. The Baron does not resist when his companion makes a grab for his arm— yanks at it with enough strength to wrench it from its socket— and physically drags him from the base of the oak. And it's good that he doesn't. Half a second later, _something_ strikes the spot where they'd lain with enough power to splinter the tree's thick trunk. A hollow _crack _fills the clearing, a sound like a thousand snapping femurs. The Scientist can feel the phantom excruciation of the assault add fractures to the skeletal structure of his own wobbling legs; he trips forward as the sonic blast shoves against their backs, wooden fragments piercing their exposed skin like so many slender stakes. A shower of shavings and chips falls about their shoulders, scented oddly of incense. Earl practically throws him into the woods, ducking behind another tree of his own. "It's in a frenzy! Carlos, _move_! _Run_, I said! Get the hell out of here—!"

"A frenzy?!" Could Carlos shout, he would've done so. Instead, what he hears leave his mouth is a puffing, querulous peep; he peers out from where he'd been callously tossed, crouching low to the ground in mimicry of Earl. "What does that even _mean_?!"

"It means I miscalculated!" the Scout snaps, not bothering to turn around. He is nearer to the clearing's edge than the Baron; he kneels fully, one leg crooked, balancing the barrel of his gun against a knot in the tree's scabby bark. Carlos cannot make out what the other is aiming at, but fears in a way he never has that he'll see it soon enough. "It means I didn't realize that you— _dammit! _"

The revolver ignites, hollering into the unknown. Its roar is returned not a moment later. The sound of it—no, the _sounds _of It, lachrymose and mania and fury and glee and he can hardly tell what else— prickle in and underneath the skin, the soul, the dirt. Everything _convulses_, bringing both earth and mind to the breaking point. The pounding returns, and Carlos is hauled back to a stand. Capes and boots and dashing legs are shushed by the weeds and brambles that border the clearing, but their demands are ignored.

"Me?! How is this _my _fault?!" Carlos wheezes when they come to another temporary stop, Earl's back pressed against the pallor of an unusually wide birch. Unfortunately, its breadth is not enough to hide them both, and the Scientist seems determined to stick close until his curiosity has been sated. Cursing mutely at the sky, the Scout darts out an arm; with little more than a squeak, Carlos finds himself pulled protectively to the taller man's chest, clinging to his shirt front for balance and feeling very peculiarly like a child. An immature child, perhaps, or a child mid-tantrum, but certainly a child. He reinforces this image by glowering childishly up at his protector, not minding that the other has cast his eyes around the tree. The Colt revolver is raised again, held tightly in the Scout's right hand; the arm around Carlos' shoulders gently eases him further to the left. And Carlos knows—he _knows_—that he should be silent. He does. But at the behest of reality, he has chosen to abandon reason, and so finds himself behaving as irrationally as the situation itself. This includes yanking at fistfuls of Earl's cloak, jostling him in some juvenile ploy for attention. "Sir! Sir, I demand an answer!"

The gun goes off again. Carlos isn't sure where the fifth shot lands, but it's definitely not anywhere near where Earl had been aiming his gaze. Birds shriek from somewhere far away; nearer, there is a whisking drum of something— something tuberous and fleshly and too abundant is numbers to be legs— pinwheeling closer, and closer, and _closer_. There is a sonorous belch, drawn and deep; the pull of it reaches from the tips of toes to the top of the head, with the elegant force of a body vomiting itself inside-out. Then slurping itself back up again. And then heaving itself _out_ once more, slinking and scrambling forward on that gruesome momentum.

The noise alone is enough to make the Baron feel nauseous. Being grabbed around the shoulders and furiously hauled off does not help matters.

"Bugger it all!" the Scout growls, looking very much like he wants to smack his companion upside the head with the butt of his pistol. Carlos isn't sure whether he should feel proud or guilty. Then again, he's not really sure of anything anymore. He settles for some bizarre combination of both emotions as he is towed forward for the umpteenth time, stumbling over the underbrush as a nigh-crimson glare pierces him like so many thorns. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Could we possibly postpone explanations to a time when I am not so busy preventing us from being killed?!"

"No! I rather think I deserve answers before our inevitable death is upon us!" Carlos barks in return, with as much indignation as a man can muster when being unceremoniously kicked into a large shrub. Earl is quick to dive in after. The rustling of leaves as the grown men settle into their glorified hide-and-seek spot is blessedly disguised by the wuthering. And then the two are nose-to-nose, dark eyes narrowed and features scratched and bodies scrunched in a number of unseemly ways. It is a standoff in the least literal manner possible.

But still, it is a standoff. And the Scout is the one to surrender.

"Nngh! _Fine_!" Earl concedes with a harsh breath. His voice cracks, splintered and dry as the sticks caught in the tangle of his hair. In Carlos'. The bush hisses, its dead leaves whispering; the Scout harmonizes his irritated retort to that chorus. "There are echelons of demons! What we face now is a fragment of a demon from the highest stratum! The stone that I chose to seal It in was somehow _not_ the right size, or weight, or purity, or type, despite all of my research, which can mean only one thing: Its obsession with _you _is somehow strengthening It, amplifying Its powers to the point that It could break free of anything I might try to seal It in!"

Carlos gives this a moment to sink in. He immediately wishes he hadn't.

"So what do we do now?!" the Scientist demands, wringing his hands in an effort to keep from pulling at his hair. He can feel an anxiety attack tease at the ends of unraveling nerves; Earl's responding glance does little to comfort him. It is absolutely _withering_.

"_Apparently _we force the one person who has any idea of how to handle this sort of situation to waste precious moments explain why we're about to be murdered by a walking slab of taffy!"

"I—!" the Baron protests—or starts to protest, anyway— but cuts himself off with a startled inhalation. The whole of him hangs in a suspension of shock. He had just seen— from the corner of his eye, there had been— "Earl!" he whispers, frantic, tugging again on the other's battered cape. It is not a gesture that the Scout seems to appreciate. He groans, rolling his eyes away from his depleted inventory of supplies and instead regards Carlos like a seven-year-old he wishes to strangle.

"_Now _what?!" he growls, low and laborious and miles past the point of exasperation. Instead, he has settled on the brink of rage. The Baron half-wonders if he might still be fated an intimate acquaintanceship with the blunted end of the Scout's revolver, but he pushes that concern aside. What's one more head injury? It isn't important. At least, it's not as important as whatever-it-is he'd just seen through the tree line, glittering and green and approaching at impossible speeds…

He jabs a trembling finger in its direction, gawping through the warped windows of brittle branches. "_Look_—!"

Earl looks. Carlos keeps looking. It looks back. And as the beast nears, the Scientist is shocked to realize that he does not need to supplement his cry by demanding _what the hell _is _that. _He doesn't need to ask anything,because he knows. Though its outline crackles and sparks with bolts of electricity, fuzzed and incorporeal; though its head, body, and legs are a vivid shade of incandescent emerald, and its ear-tips sunrise gold; though its paws are somehow violet, and need only to touch the ground once every four meters—he knows. He can tell, can _see_, that it is obviously a…

A cat.

A _cat. _

A _large_ cat, roughly the size of an enormous lynx, with a tail that whips behind it like a serpent from the sea. It bounds in steep arches through and over the gnarled brush, leaving behind it fizzling afterimages that pop like embers and spit like static. Wherever it alights, soundless and sprightly, something familiar appears. Ripples, really, in centrifugal bands: concentric circles of light and lines that shine in shades of luminescent lilac, florescent lime. _Pentacles_, Carlos realizes, as its paws brush against a tree trunk. The image blossoms vertically then, and the Baron can see that it is identical to the one that Earl had sketched into the soil. The air, the ground, the bark of the trees are all branded by the landing cat's imprint, if only ephemerally; the darkness is irradiated by a sporadic shower of bright bursts, as if this were the final resting place of a dozen falling stars.

And it is beautiful. Terrifying, yes, but also lovely, like watching a summer storm rumble in from the far distance. He supposes there are worse ways to die, than at the hands—paws?—of something so magnificent. Thus numbed, Carlos glances swiftly towards Earl, hoping for a hint as to how doomed they are. How horrified he should be. But instead of grim stoicism or deliquescing dread, Carlos is startled to discover a burgeoning expression of unadulterated delight taking hold of the other's battered face.

"It's the Jade Cat. Ohr," Earl murmurs aloud— though for whose benefit, Carlos is unsure. It sounds simultaneously like a salutation and an introduction. Perhaps that is what it is supposed to be. The creature in question opens its nebulous, Cheshire maw and rocks the forest with a sound-of-light _shriek, _its sentiments conveyed in coruscating bursts atop the surface of the brain.

"Ohr?" Carlos echoes, awe-struck and petrified as the beast's brilliance gives the world around it a distinctive, yet eerie glow. It is barely six meters away now, and he can _feel _it, if distantly; its presence tingles in the Baron's extremities with the same uncomfortable sting as limbs sacrificed to the pins-and-needles phenomenon of poor circulation. He flexes as much as their tiny refuge will allow. "Is that its name? From what does it derive? Is it… I believe that's Hebrew?"

The Scientist is rambling. He knows that. And he does not particularly expect Earl to bother satiating his etymological interests. But neither does he expect for the Scout to _leap to his feet_, the branches around him breaking like fingers in a desperate (yet fruitless) attempt to push him back down.

"Earl!" the Baron hisses, panicked, as he turns a flustered glare towards the idiot giving their position away. His copper hair is snarled and full of forest treasures as he blooms from the center of the bush like a sprout himself. Or, if not a sprout, a target, undoubtedly; Carlos gives his companion's cloak a series of sharp yanks, trying to urge him back into the safety of the underbrush. "Earl, you're going to get us spotted!"

But Earl is no longer listening to him. This doesn't strike the Scientist as overly surprising, all things considered. If anything, the Baron deserved to have been ignored before this. Still, he wouldn't have imagined his guide as willing to sacrifice _himself _in his quest for vengeance against Carlos and his unending stream of irritating questions. The Baron winces, eyes squeezing shut as the incandescent animal makes a final _jump_—

—and then keeps hurdling forward, passing Carlos and Earl without a second glance. Instead, it vaults itself into the moorland, slamming into _something_ with a screech like striking lightning and the effervescent hiss of a seeping wound as it is cauterized. In his peripheral, Carlos sees sparks fly; he knows his mind would not survive seeing anything more.

It's just as well, for there are plenty of other oddities to capture his attention. Such as the sight of a slender silhouette all but flying through the woods, pale enough to resemble a roaming moonbeam. It bounds from evaporating light-pool to evaporating light-pool, hair and suit-coat fluttering as it picks its way rapidly forward with a near supernatural grace. Assuming for a moment that this might yet be _another _monster coming to rip them apart, the Scientist teeters on the brink of a full-blown conniption; Earl waving his arms to get the phantasm's attention does not help.

What does is shouting its name.

"Mister Palmer!" the Scout cries, wading out of the shrub as the Marquis comes more fully into view. The crystal of his spectacles flash like twin comets as he steps into a puddle of heavenly light; he is a vision of power and authority in the terror of the dark. Or he would be, anyway, had his expression of affectionate relief not twisted as Earl shouts at him. The other's obvious anger takes him aback as much as it does Carlos. Cecil skids to a halt before the disapproving Scout Master, his head cocked in bewilderment as the other places balled fists upon his hips. Earthen eyes narrow accusingly as Earl greets his patron by demanding, "Where the hell is your cloak?!"

The Marquis blinks. Starts. Glances swiftly down at both of his arms, head twiddling back and fore as if he has only just realized that he is out in the raw chill of early March wearing only his casual finery. "Oh," he then says, sheepish. "Oh dear. Oh, I knew I was forgetting something."

There is a booming crash of energy from the clearing, pitched past the point of human hearing yet still capable of rattling their teeth, sending vibrations up their knees. Earl braces against the rolling ground, unimpressed. Carlos—having managed to further snag himself in vines in the aftermath of the otherworldly howl— wonders madly just which event had vexed the Scout more, nearly dying at the hands of a possessed farmer, or seeing Cecil underdressed for the elements. Probably the latter. The Baron wonders just who to feel worse for: the reanimated corpse of John Peters and whatever ignominy Ohr is subjecting it to, or the Marquis of Night Vale as he fidgets under the Earl's condemning glower.

"How old are you, Sir?" the Scout is pressing, going so far as to tap his foot in a show of displeasure. "Four? Five? Must I really be present for you to remember to dress properly?"

The younger man's features grump into a pout. He meets the other's glare with one of his own, their matching furrows illuminated by the ebb and flow of paranormal light emanating from the heathlands. "My apologies for being in a rush to save you," Cecil grouses, crossing svelte arms over his chest. He has gained a ruddy flush around his cheeks and ears, but the Scientist suspects the color has more to do with frustration, and less to do with the cold. Which doesn't make complete sense given the temperatures, but little about any of this makes complete sense. "Next time, I shall endeavor to put more of an emphasis on my appearance, having been made aware of the fashion consciousness of the Fae. Does the Elfin Prince have any requests? The lavender suit coat, perhaps? The lilac trousers?"

"Personally, Master, I am rather fond of the tailored gown hiding in the back corner of the guest suite."

All three men jolt. From beneath the cover of blackness, no more than two meters behind their exposed backs, there had been a long, fibrous rip: a dragging groan, similar to that of muslin being torn into strips. And something had indeed been torn, and it does appear to be a sort of fabric, though it is not a bolt as corporeal or commonplace as muslin. No, from what Carlos can tell, the film of space-time itself has been temporarily rendered into halves, fraying around the cut of fresh seams. Like drapery set to segregate rooms, the carved curtains of ethereal matter flap about before a churning portal, plumb and gleaming in shades of ruby, onyx, pearl. It is not entirely dissimilar to the one that Earl's jewel had opened earlier, except that which peeps beyond the transplendent sheet of ripped reality is not a screaming demon, but a teenage girl.

A smirking teenage girl. In the gloom, her features are amused, but sharp— avian in ways that cannot be explained, sans in describing the set of the teeth in her jaw: the flashing of perfect, pointed lines, like little ivory beaks. The lacy layers of her gown float and flow, sloughing into the plumose darkness which has encased her like feathery down. The shawl on her shoulders spreads into wings, gauzily insubstantial. She giggles—cackles— and the gem atop her breast crackles in kind. Iridescent, it spits fireflies and flares in shades to match the vortex. All in all, she cuts an impressive figure, Carlos thinks.

Earl and Cecil do not appear to agree.

"_Dana_!" the two yelp, mortified, their previous quarrel abandoned in favor of pursuing this one. With a weirdly synchronized spin, the furious men twist away from each other and instead turn to heap parental condemnation upon the young woman in their charge. Dana, for her part, meets their glares coolly; her plumy aura molts away as she steps fully through the churning threshold. Her tourmaline fizzles. With a _crack_ and a _pop,_ the rabbit hole behind her closes, sewn shut with no more ceremony than when it had been slashed open.

"Young lady, I told you to stay home!" the Marquis is rebuking, brandishing a gloved finger at the girl. The Scout nods—as Carlos' mother used to do when he was being lectured by his father— and the Baron finds himself wondering, not for the first time, about the peculiar dynamic between these three. Perhaps, if the Baron survives this, he'll have a chance to ask. Though he's starting to sincerely doubt the odds are in his favor, what with how the self-proclaimed "monster hunters" are far more interested in dealing with each other than they are in dealing with the actual monster tromping about in the vicinity.

Speaking of…

With a clench of his hands and lead in his stomach, Carlos chances a series of darted glance towards the Jade Cat and its foe. Through the cage of the trees, he can see only glimmers and flashes—a trailing tail twined as tight as a rope; eyes that whirl like mobius voids; forked teeth and talons that leave fractal burns against thick, flailing tubers (like tongues, or intestines, or— _no_) that Carlos _refuses_ to think too hard about… The rancid stench of sweet rot, putrefying candy, and scorched flesh curdles his nostrils as it drifts into the forest, traveling from the chaos of the clearing on thin wisps and gusts of air. The putrid stink of caramelized ozone is becoming a distraction in its own right; it is so dense, it is close to becoming tangible. The Scientist scrubs at his nose, pulling himself back to the present—pulling himself _out _of the damn bush— just in time to catch Dana retorting:

"And Brother told _you_ to wear your cloak. The apple and the tree, hm?"

"Willful worms will rot the fruit before its time! Little Rook, I— _ah!_"

There is the unmistakable, grinding roar of two continents colliding. As the thunder of it sends snow swirling through the copses, the stationary Cecil suddenly—bizarrely— loses his footing. He gasps, as surprised as everyone else; his glower slips into a grimace, pained but fleeting. He is spared the humiliation of falling to his knees only by the mercy of an adjacent elm. Beside the Marquis, Earl stiffens in concern. Dana half-lunges towards him, only to be stopped by a lifted hand and an elevated cluster of roots.

"Hmm," Cecil comments in the wake of all of this, his features smoothing into an expression of detached interest as he glances down at his disobedient legs. He gives the right one a shake, experimental. "I seem to have lost the vast majority of feeling in my thigh."

He does not seem overly disturbed about this. Dana, on the other hand, has abandoned her unflappable façade in favor of fretful distress. Which is certainly what Carlos is feeling, at present. Though, in honesty, he is fairly certain that the young woman's worries extend more to the Marquis himself, and less to their current predicament, which is the main source of his anxiety. Justifiably, and completely reasonably, the Baron would argue. All the same, that doesn't stop him from feeling a touch heartless. He is eternally grateful when, despite his doubts, Dana expands the breadth of her concerns to include the miasma of encroaching dangers.

"You must hurry, Master!" she urges, her eyes as wide and dark as gemstones in the gray. "Before you are grievously injured! Or, worse—before he turns all of us into apples of the caramel sort!"

"We do require your assistance, Mister Palmer," Earl adds, with a guilty softness generally reserved for apologetic children. To hear such a tone from the Scout catches the Baron off-guard. He might be gawping a bit. But if his features shift, they are not the only ones to do so.

Gloved fingers curl against the scaly bark of the tree. Behind his glasses, Cecil's expression changes. Behind his eyes, something else changes, too—something incorporeal, something significant. Willowy arms give the slightest flex; the Marquis pushes himself from his perch with an ease and grace that expresses no discomfort at all. In that same, fluid movement, he turns himself towards the moor, his lips thin and profile unreadable as a pungent draft cards through his bangs.

Delicate fingers slip his spectacles from the bridge of his nose. Without their grounding mundaneness, he looks more preternatural than ever.

"Earl," the man then intones, in a voice so sinfully sonorous that Carlos—still standing awkwardly near the crushed shrub— fears his own thighs will be the next to lose sensation, "I must ask you to move. Adana, help our scientist friend. Take him elsewhere. Go now," he commands, puncturing his orders with an adroit series of gesticulations. How the addition of these gestures add to the nuance of this one-sided conversation, the Scientist could not dream to say… But some secret is certainly conveyed to the others, and their responses are instantaneous:

"Yes, my Lord."

"As you wish, Master."

A faint bow, a shallow curtsy; bright fabrics twirl as two well-trained bodies leap immediately to work. And then all three are moving—in different directions, but with a shared certainty that leaves the Baron feeling like he'd missed something very important in that conversation. Or, perhaps, like he'd missed an entire lifetime of important conversations. He catches, barely, the sight of Earl leaping fearlessly towards the heather and heath, his scarlet cloak billowing like crimson mist from blown arteries. A moment later, the Marquis bounds swiftly after. He had been temporarily distracted by shooting Carlos a faint smile from over his shoulder.

In the aftermath, the Baron finds that his knees have been rendered useless, too.

"They cannot possibly be…"

"Come now, Sir Scientist! Surely you have a brain beneath that stylish coif of yours! Master said to go!"

Carlos' dumbstruck murmurs are shaken into violent silence, much as his arm is nearly wrenched from its socket. He feels numb. He feels numb all over, and it's not Dana's fault, he knows—even as her nails bite painfully through his mantle, and her skin begins to regain its blazing ebony plumage. It is not her fault, but it is the fault of whatever entity has enveloped her. The smoldering miasma, shed in inky quills, writes lost histories into his wrist and hidden horrors into his hand as it drains the life from his fingers. As it sucks away his dimensions, and loosens his anchor to this plane of being. There are dimensions of potentials, her claws scrawl into the soft of his skin: crisscrossed lines of time with futures and pasts that do not match this world's, and those red threads are what replace Carlos' blood as the young woman tugs at his arm. Tugs at his core. Like this, Dana imbues both pain and possibilities. Portals to those possibilities. Existence is full of possibilities.

Death, not so much. And he will die. He will, regardless of the yarn he follows, unless he goes with her _right now_.

But…

"But…" He blinks at her. It's moronic. _He's _moronic. He should go. He _wants _to go. He wants to stay. It seems only fair. After all this—after _everything _he had been forced to suffer—he deserves closure. He deserves answers. He wants, no, he _needs_, to know… He needs to see—

_He needs to see_.

"Baron!"

The horrified shout pierces the air behind him like the screech of a mighty bird, clawing the air to shreds as he bolts. He doesn't want to go far. He doesn't need to go far. If he can just reach the tree line, if he can peer past the boarder of this entombing woods for a mere moment, then—

"…oh my God."

The exclamation is no more than a wavering whisper. His legs finally—completely and totally—surrender beneath him, and Carlos drops like a rock to the freezing earth. Even without the maggots his mind is _shrieking_, writhing and beating against the cambers of his aching skull as it tries to consolidate the sight he now observes with whatever remnants of reality he'd managed to retain his hold on. He's not sure how well he fares. He cannot seem to focus on the glutinous darkness—with its pulsing pustules and veiny sinew, glossy like under-tongues and seeping viscera. He is not sure he'd want to, anyway. Just the suggestion of it, roiling and jiggling in the corners of his eyes, is enough to take years off of his life. It undulates, gelatinous, seemingly trying to consume the whole of the meadow.

But it cannot seem to penetrate the large and gleaming pentacle seared into the clearing's center.

The luminous insignia is five times the size of Earl's, and the light it emanates is truer: stronger, brighter, growing like verdant grasses from the curves and crevices in its design. The gossamer ribbons—like shimmering vines from gardens below— push and bloom, stretch and shine, glinting in an ever-changing amalgam of greens and golds and violets. Ohr is no longer anywhere to be seen. But Carlos is fairly certain he knows where it's gone. Or, more accurately, what it has become.

The circle's edges sizzle and glint, its electric embers whipped about on whirlpool winds. Those breezes eddy over the lawn, through the trees, across the Scientist's face; they waft an herbal headiness through the night, the piquant bouquet overwhelming the revolting odor of rancid desserts. Lightning fragments the air, igniting it with clustered stars that are quick to leap back upward: reversing their fall and rejoining their brethren. And beneath the dust of their departure, dappled in the aureole gleam of this kaleidoscopic halo, stands the Marquis of Night Vale.

His clothes and hair are beating against him, like petals in a maelstrom. He is disheveled and poised, lax and alert. His hands—long and pallid and shucked of their gloves— are held before him much as Earl's had been: index and middle fingers forming a gap through which to stare down his opponent. But unlike the Scout, Cecil's diamond-shaped frame lacks the glitter of a diamond. Or an apatite, for that matter. Or a gem of any kind.

His ashen locks flurry. Carlos thinks his lashes do, too. With measured reverence, the Marquis tips his elegant head back… and back… and back, until its base rests against his shoulders. The tapered tips of lithe middle fingers fall against the round of his nose; the crossed index fingers are cradled against his lower lip, already parted and moving.

"_Canticum David, cum fugeret a facie Abessalon filii sui. Domine, quid multiplicati sunt qui tribulant me? Multi insurgent adversum me; multi dicunt animae meae: Non est salus ipsi in Deo ejus. Tu autem Domine, susceptor meus es, Gloria mea, et exaltans caput meum. Voe mea ad Dominum clamvi; et exaudivit me de monte sancto suo. Ego dormivi, et soporatus sum; ex exsurrexi, quia Dominus suscepit me. Non timebo millia populi circumdantis me. Exsurge, Domine; salvum me fac, Deus meus. Quoniam tu percussisti omnes adversantes mihi sine causa; dentes peccatorum contrivisit. Domini est salus; et super populum tuum benediction tua,_" that voice chants, with a depth and darkness that seems to reach beyond the mortal soul. Beyond the realms of corporeality, and beyond the planes of known existence—past even where the talons of the winged Adana might reach. Carlos can hear that voice, _feel_ that voice, ringing in the bones within his bones, in the ears behind his ears. Inside his every cell. The sound of it washes over him in near-liquid waves, flooding beneath his skin. He is drowning in his own body. He is floundering, gasping, thinking thoughts of folly: of the varnish applied to marionettes, of ligaments like gut-hewn strings, of the dexterous hands which control them, of a thesis that he had recently penned. Incantations and the power of language. Kotodama, ebra kidbara, hoodoo, and— "_Adtendite populus meus legem meam inclinate aurem vestram in verba oris mei. Aperiam in parabola os meum eloquar propositiones ab initio. Lapidem quem reprobaverunt aedificantes hic factus est in caput anguli: in fame, et in dentibus. Faucibus vallis nocte, et verba mea, nunc _blue apatite."

Cecil sucks down a breath. Carlos can see, even from this distance, the workings of his throat: how he is taking a single, great pull at the shadows, drinking it in. Drinking _It _in. The viscous gloom is peeling away from Itself, impalpable skin corkscrewing from gaseous pulp as if a sort of fruit. Obsidian tendrils and vaporous curls are suckled into the vacuity of an open mouth, streaming and squirming against an inescapable current. A chorus of unearthly, muffled wails echo pitifully up from that impossible chasm, losing pitch and power as the creature loses Its form. Loses Its grip. Loses everything. The moor is almost visible again; a final tentacle of molasses is slurped into the greedy orifice with a sound like spilt jelly.

In that same instant, the Marquis fingers synch to a shut. He flips his hands, clasping them firmly over his mouth.

He swallows. Shoulders tense. Legs locked. And with a noiseless detonation, the pentacle beneath him flares: brilliant to the point of blinding those nearby. The Baron cries out, startled; amidst the midnight supernova, he can barely parse the outline of a humanoid figure buckling. Delicately retching. Everything is blazing, burning white behind the eyes. Like a cold fire in his corneas, the sort that God might've seen fit to ignite during the days of His older testament. It does not hurt. Carlos thinks it should.

Dazed, vision blurred by dancing spots, the Scientist fails to notice the shackle-tight grip around his wrist until it is too late.

"We _must_ go!" Dana demands, furious, her screams nearly inaudible over the deafening gale of non-sound. The jewel around her throat is stirring once more, churning out a storm of its own. Black as night. Bright as a cosmos. Its glossed surface vortices like the eternal hurricane of Jupiter, once glimpsed through his home-built telescope: a monochrome giant, turbulent and tempestuous, thunder crackling around its glinting eye. It looms above him like a planet. A dark planet, one without a sun, and the Baron cannot resist its gravity. He cannot resist her. He cannot pull himself away. Cannot pull his gaze away— cannot bear to turn away from the foggy figure of a distant silhouette, its head crowned in nebulous white and its hand clasped around a secret treasure.

Cecil stands, a statue holding a stone. He does not move, does not waver… At least, not until a murky blotch of burgundy rushes into the Scientist's distorted line of vision, arms open and waiting and ready.

He does not know if the Marquis tips forward to meet the Scout. He does not know if the nobleman collapses, graceless. He does not know if, worn and abused in the wake of a literal enervation, Cecil Palmer faints in the embrace of his self-appointed guardian.

But upon hearing a dragging groan rip through the space (and time) behind him, Carlos knows that _he_ does.

**XXX**

For those interested, Earl's prayer was Psalm 102. Cecil's was a bit of an amalgam. It started with Psalm 3, which in English reads as:

"_Lord, how many are my foes! How many rise up against me! Many are saying of me, 'God will not deliver him.' But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. I call out to the Lord, and He answers me from His holy mountain. I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me. I will not fear though tens of thousands assail me on every side. Arise, Lord! Deliver me, my God! Strike all my enemies on the jaw; break the teeth of the wicked. From the Lord comes deliverance. May your blessing be on Your people_."

It was then followed by: "_Attend, O my people, to my law. Incline your ears to the words of my mouth. I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter propositions from the beginning. The stone which the builders rejected has become the corner stone: teeth and hunger. Gorge of Night Vale, by my words, you are now blue apatite,_" which was a mixture of Psalm 78:1-2, Psalm 118:22, and the ever-infallible google translate.

Also, a rod is an old unit of measurement. It equates to about 16.5 feet.


	6. VI

**Disclaimer:** In the words of the Secret Police, "nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo."

**Author's Note:** Epilogue time! My thanks to everyone who has come on this magical, monster-hunting journey with us—especially those who have taken the time to leave kudos and review! I hope you've all enjoyed the ride. Expect more stories soon~

**Warnings:** Contains a quote borrowed from "The Visitor." Also contains some of the (many variations of) lyrics from Scarborough Fair/Canticle, the latter of which I maybe made up a verse or two. Flashbacks to "Butterfly Weed." Other usual warnings apply. I pour my heart and all of its glutinous, sticky contents to my coauthor/beta Dangersocks, who kept me inspired enough to finish this fic in the first place. Thanks, as well, to tumblr users acidtygr and ofgraceandsin, who have been so candy-sweet to me!

**XXX**

**A Taste of Something**

**X**

_VI_

"One who is full loathes honey, but to one who is hungry everything bitter is sweet."

-Proverbs 27:7

**XXX**

"Will dealings with you always leave me concussed?"

It is an innocent enough question, Carlos thinks, all things considered. After all the things he has considered. After all the horrors and realizations that had lain in wait to be considered, and had leaped out to plague him as soon as the fog of his fugue had lifted. He'd felt choked, as if so much food for thought had been wedged within his gullet; he'd felt eviscerated, as if his stomach had been split and emptied of all that had been inside of him. The Scientist later reckons that the sensation had been an acute attack of nerves. Either that, or the start of a malaise induced by his own protesting molecules. Once he had finished gently seizing, the foam and spittle dabbed from his mouth by the vague shadow of another, his mind had put itself into a sort of glassy stasis; he had been reduced to basic mechanics, switched to a temporarily perfunctory setting as his body had sorted out whatever damage Dana's paranormal portal had put it through.

At least, that's what Carlos supposes is to blame. He has been left to suppose a great many things, as of late, having lacked the abilities to research his symptoms. Or to properly communicate his concerns in his daze. Or to do much of anything besides sleep and dream. Sleep and hallucinate. Really, what are dreams if not the madcap hallucinations of an overworked brain? And yet, there had been something about those phantasmagoric visions of parading petals and parsed wings that had Carlos thinking of magic…

_"You are the Magician."_

But he is a Scientist. Even now, after the Wonderland that he has witnessed. And so, until such a time that new data presents itself, the Baron will doggedly tell any who ask that what he had drifted in and out of had been no more than fever dreams. Faculty numbing, chronology warping dreams. Dreams that had left him yearning, fascinated. Petrified. Dreams that had him aching to _study_, to _know_, to…

_"I suppose you'll just have to wake up and find out." _

Well. He is not sure how many nights have passed since their adventure in Epping—he would hope no more than a week's worth—but beneath the rounded awning of a whitewashed gazebo, seated weakly on the edge of a teatime spread, Carlos begrudgingly admits (if only to himself) that it had felt as if those dreams might have been made of something more. Or, maybe, that there had been more to them. Or, possibly, that they had not been dreams at all.

This not a dream either, though his pensive reverie is certainly dreamlike. Something he must wake from. The Baron's thoughts pop like bubbles, their iridescent film shattering, upon being pricked by some outside sound. The wry bluntness of his drawled query is finally answered, if only by a china chuckle. Carlos jerks himself back to awareness as Wedgewood chitters, shamelessly amused, before being prudently replaced atop the tablecloth. The saucer glints. It is not alone in doing so. A serpentine string of pearls and peridot has been woven around plates and pot, sugar bowl and creamer. It is decorative, surely— undeniably artistic. Yet its lay also strikes the Scientist as mysteriously purposeful, with coils reminiscent of certain sigils inscribed in half-remembered pentacles. One or two pastel macrons match the olivine stones in hue; their edible brethren are pink, and blue, and gold, and pale, all in shades that complement the tea set. They are nearly too lovely to eat. But that is not the reason Carlos refuses to indulge.

Splayed and raised on silver tiers, the sweets have been displayed with such meticulous precision that the Baron cannot help but think of dissected rainbows. Pinned butterflies. Jewels cursed with demons, flowers with terrible meanings. Beautiful, harmless things, warped into something alien. Horrifying. Beside the pretty biscuits, the shaved pineapple atop bite-sized tarts glints wetly, preserved beneath layers of sugary resin and the ivory petals of cherry blossoms. Carlos only just manages to keep himself from breaking everything.

And so that task becomes another's burden.

"I should certainly hope not," the one across from him murmurs, his throaty laughter shattering whatever reverent spell had been cast between them. Or some layer of it, anyway. There somehow remains a great deal between them, Carlos mulls— a spell between himself and the Marquis that had little to do with silence. Or science. Or anything tangible, really. One and one: two bodies in a garden.

As if somehow privy to these private thoughts, Mister Palmer coos in soft agreement. He has one palm draped over the other, and his chin atop that; his fingers, leather-bound and spindly, glimmer beneath the weight of two rings, bright as the teeth that shine in his smile. The sweep of that simper is sinfully silken, soft enough to match the locks now wafting in a balmy breeze. It is said that March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, and Carlos cannot but muse on the appropriateness of the comparison. How his host had so recently seemed the former, but now looks the latter.

Looks. Only looks. Sheep's clothing worn with a wolfish grin, his white eyes half-lidded to hide oozing black humor.

"Concussions are such a waste of the mind, and a mind is a terrible thing to waste. Particularly a mind like yours, dear Carlos. Science won't study itself," Mister Palmer quips, one leg crossing the other with toes pointed gracefully outward. But then he pauses, considers; he abandons his eldritch edge for something more guileless. "Or perhaps it will? Might Science gain sentience, Sir?"

The Marquis' glance snaps away from the corner, where his eyes had given chase to wandering thoughts. Now he has his head cocked, and the display is one of such innocuous curiosity that the Baron cannot help snorting.

"You truly know little of Science, do you?" he says—teases really, though he would be loath to label his rejoinder as such. They have barely known each other for two weeks, for goodness' sake. He should not be so familiar. Not even if his play at jest seems to thrill Cecil, his features gaining a ruddy tinge of friendly indignation.

"I am afraid I have filled my head with knowledge of another kind," he returns in tones of similar lightness. And yet, there is no denying the shadow that the words cast over their quaint party. Rather, Carlos imagines it is the words. It must be the words, for beyond the steps of their elevated shelter the sun is gleaming, bright and warm. The gem of it hovers above on beams of its own florescent light, shining rays making jewels of the lawn and forest, weeds and gardens. The last of winter's snow slides down the spines of springy grasses, leaving the blades to shiver pleasantly in the wafting winds. Within those emerald patches, tuberoses are growing in waxen starbursts, feathery and white; their pallor is augmented by neighboring clusters of crimson chrysanthemum and the tenacious buds of yellow carnations, clawing valiantly through the final patches of ice. The crêpe paper bunches rustle sweetly, petals flurrying. Within the haven of the blooming grove, layered skirts and starched aprons flurry in kind. They are the petals to flowers of a different sort.

Two pairs of dark, dexterous fingers pluck and pick at wild sprigs of Queen Ann's lace, weaving the delicate filigree with buttery dandelions to create fairy crowns. Maureen—present at Night Vale upon Carlos' insistence— had made fast friends with Dana, and is now assisting the older girl with the more complicated knots necessary to create their circlets. Dana, in thanks, leads the rounds of their playful tune:

"_Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_Remember me to one who lives there,_

_For he once was a true love of mine_."

"…on the subject of your knowledge," the Baron ventures, brave, though his steady stare falls more upon his tea than his attentive host. His hands fidget before him, jittering with nerves despite his best attempts to keep them folded and proper. Wetting chapped lips, he winces and says, "Sir, might I… I realize it is the height of rudeness to be so crude, but—John. John Peters, you know, the farmer. Is he dead? Did you…"

He takes a deep breath. Cecil takes another shallow pull of his drink.

"Did I kill him?" the Marquis then finishes quietly, the polished weight of the new, vividly blue stone on his ring finger glinting like the marble of fresh tombs. He is still smiling, though the expression has lost its teeth. Carlos does not miss the irony of this, even if he does not comment on it. He focuses instead on nodding, his forehead furrowing into lines like excessive frowning mouths. "Well," Cecil continues musingly, the retort as delicate as the cup and saucer held between his hands, "I suppose that would depend upon your definition of who John Peters was."

"_Ask him to make me a cambric shirt,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_Without a seam or needlework_

_Then he'll be a true love of mine…_"

The Baron can sense the futility of his efforts to keep regally still. His mind is too chaotic to repress; its energies are too great to refuse a channel. With as much insouciance confidence as one like himself can muster in the presence of such mystery, the Scientist surrenders to his juvenile need to squirm and fret, twirling the ornate length of a teaspoon in poor imitation of a certain Scout. His decision to do so isn't overly surprising. Earl is, after all, on Carlos' mind. "Master Harlan told me that… That John had been possessed by something lurking within his soul," he paraphrases tentatively, brief winks of light—flashing like small, exploding stars— catching in the bowl of his cutlery. "That he had been consumed by something that had always been there. That he had lost control of his faculties, as well as his sense of self… That it was not the John I knew who caused this horror, but the demon within him."

Between the Baron's callused fingers, the spoon continues its talentless dance, flicking dappled radiance in patches and splashes across the painted laths of the gazebo. A shimmering blot of it glints off Cecil's glasses; listening intently, the Marquis blinks. Slowly, measured. The expression he dons is nothing if not affectionate, though his lilted chortle has a greater abundance of some other sentiment. Something like sympathy, but darker. Sadder.

"The Earl of Harlan is very kind," Cecil says then, with a reverence that does little to quantify the pinch that his features have gained. Carlos' lips purse as shifting emotions fissure across the smooth of his host's forehead, the tectonic plates beneath his brows inching closer together. The Marquis presses his own lower lip to that of his enameled cup: a half-kiss which fails to hide the ruefulness of his countenance. "It is one of his most endearing qualities."

The Scientist processes this. All of this, the spoken and the unspoken, before pressing further. "Yet you act as if his assessment is wrong."

"Indeed, I do," the other man agrees, again placing his drink atop the curved ledge of the table. The porcelain does not chatter, does not even whisper, as if afraid to interrupt. "For I said that dear Earl was kind, not that he was correct. Kindness, I fear, is known to stroll arm in arm with naivety, and together they are happy to skip the road to Hell on a pathway paved with good intent."

_"On the side of a hill in deep forest green_

_Tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground_

_Blankets and bedclothes, the Child of the Mountain_

_Sleeps unaware of the clarion call…_"

Maureen's bashful soprano trickles between the wooden pilasters, the maid harmonizing her airy response to Dana's soulful alto call. The notes of it plait together, idle and evocative, like ivy and trellises and twining blossoms. A butterfly bobs across the clement sky, matching its flight to the rise and fall of their song. Its kaleidoscopic wings are paper-thin and familiar; Carlos watches it wobble from the corner of his eye, unable to keep from being blustered about despite being so sure of its course. From wavering as it goes. He finds he feels great empathy for the creature.

"…is that not hypocrisy, Sir?" he queries, settling his spoon as the butterfly settles upon the bell of a daffodil. The golden bloom sways, much like its small guest. Much like the Baron, whose gaze has returned to his host flecked with the pollen of a cautious petulance. He thinks longingly of the banter that he had so effortlessly engaged in with the Scout, and wonders what it is about this younger man that prevents him from being as droll. What it is about Mister Palmer that leaves him feeling breathlessly on edge, clinging like an insect to the wavering precipice of a petal. "Hypocrisy that you should sit here and belittle Master Harlan, that is. For while we have not been acquainted for long, my Lord, I have only ever witnessed _you_ acting with great kindness," Carlos says.

He does not say this lightly. He speaks lightly, perhaps, but due only to the glow bequeathed by recent elucidation. In the aftermath of Epping, the Scientist had awoken enlightened, the newfound brilliance of so weird and wonderful a reality throwing all he'd ever believed into fresh focus. He had been rattled to the core, to the very foundations of his being, and now the ground beneath his feet is littered with as many data points as it is dust and crumbs. In his mind, he had collected all three for study, weighing in his palm the implications of Earl and Dana's previous assertions. Every impossible story and bizarre statement has suddenly gained credence in Carlos' salvaged mind; the Marquis' benevolence is no longer so much a circumstantial claim as it is a fact. A quantifiable truth, tested and proven.

And so Carlos did not speak lightly. He did not speak in jest. And yet, his companion laughs as if the Scientist had just composed the cleverest of jokes. Sultry and rich, the silken baritone of the Marquis' amusement ribbons between the cracks of his smirking mouth, as velvety black as some funeral shrouds. The Baron bristles at the implied insult, mildly affronted. Then the Marquis speaks, and he bristles for entirely different reasons.

"Oh, my dear," Mister Palmer purrs, his pale eyes glittering in sunburst dapples behind the leafy fringe of his bangs. "I am _anything_ but kind."

His teeth glint, pearlescent, within the scythe-sharp curve of his smirk, and Carlos is quite sure that his fleeting impression of serrated edges is no more than an illusion of the light. But that does not keep his heart from skipping a scheduled beat.

"That said," the Marquis continues—in a markedly different tone, closer to Heaven than Hell in terms of its timbre, "my many failings of character are not what we have pulled you from the guest suite to discuss. I should hate to return you to bed with only thoughts of my numerous, but very dull flaws to entertain you. No, let us instead focus your restored lucidity upon the wayward Mister Peters. For while no one but he can be blamed for his actions, his descent into deviltry was unusual, and worthy of analysis."

"In what way?" Carlos demands, with a ravenous curiosity for knowledge that he has not felt for many months, if not many years. His own voraciousness surprises him; the Baron feels acutely like a child awaiting the promised conclusion of a gripping tale. As such, he is not overly shocked to find himself quite literally sitting on the edge of his seat, bridged over the setting of his saucer, spoon, cup. The tea within—steeped to a lovely shade of amber—has been spruced with a sliver of orange and embellished by a sprig of herbs. Another spray of lemon balm, it seems. He has yet to touch it. There is so much to say, to do, to _learn_, that Carlos cannot bear the thought of wasting his efforts on anything so cumbersome as snacking. His hands and mouth are much better engaged like this, in work. And he never much cared for sweets, anyway. "He cracked, correct? Was that not the norm? Per chance, was the transformation of his body an uncommon twist? No, was it his crimes? Were they the outlier? Or perhaps his suffering was from dual personalities? What was it about John's fall from grace that was so extraordinary?"

The Scientist is rambling. He knows he is rambling, knows it's unseemly, knows he should _stop talking _if he actually wants an answer. But Cecil's smile is tolerant as he blathers, serene and unperturbed by anything— least of all his companion's candid excitement on this matter. The expression's dimpled corners lift the smallest fraction, held aloft by the same invisible threads that seem to pull Carlos closer. Closer. So close…

"It was that he did not 'fall' at all. He was pushed."

"_Ask him to find me an acre of land,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_Between the salt water and the sea sand_

_Then he'll be a true love of mine._"

The Baron nearly topples from the edge of his own seat, only just managing to catch himself on the ledge of the table. His china clatters, disapproving. His host hides a more impish leer behind the steeple of his hands, seemingly pleased at how successful his impromptu demonstration had been. How to push without touch, to lure without bait. But behind that veneer of childish mirth, beneath the broken clock-spring curl of his ivory lashes, the Marquis' opalescent eyes are soft with a shrewdness that makes Carlos think of melted scalpels. Cutting. Dangerous.

Cecil bridges gloved fingers, chin planted smugly atop them.

"I say as much assuming that you have been weaned on Earl's quaint analogy about teacups," he elaborates pragmatically, elbows framing the tasteful lay of his dishware. Again, Carlos cannot help observing the soundless elegance of the Marquis' every movement: stately, sure, and just shy of predatory in terms of grace. He wonders if he should worry. He recognizes that he should. He also realizes that he doesn't. Instead, the Baron focuses on mirroring his host's dignified stance, trying futilely to appear like a composed member of the gentry, rather than an overly excited Scientist on the verge of maniacally reassessing every experiment that he has ever performed. Carlos doubts his attempts at projecting poise are in any way successful, but Cecil does not seem to mind. At least, he is ever-grinning as he adds, "If I might be so bold as to again borrow that allegory… Most Vessels of John's ilk are chipped away gradually. Slowly, from disuse and daily wear, from within and without. It is a process that might take years. Decades, even. Centuries, in very special cases. But our ill-fated farmer did not 'fragment' so much as 'shatter.' He was, we might say, shoved from the metaphorical shelf."

"By whose hand?"

"Whose indeed?" Cecil wonders in kind, with a shift of his shoulders that might have been a noncommittal shrug. Or it may have been something more innocuous— a flex of muscle to grab at a parcel unseen—for the next moment finds the Marquis sliding something pale and flat from the breast of his suit coat. A piece of parchment, or something of the sort. Sallow in hue, heavy in stock. It is flicked across the table with the same adroitness that had set tarot cards dancing. "A bit of research found me this," he says in way of introduction, folding his hands back to neatness as Carlos snatches up the proffered sheet. "To an extent, it seems we might blame Talbot. There _are_ those who believe that to have one's photograph taken is to have one's soul stolen."

The Baron gawps. He trembles. He feels something sting at the backs of his eyes, a prickling pressure like that of thorny weeds. The heat of it causes something to ache within him—many things ache within him—but the niggling pain does not stop Carlos from staring, from gazing wistfully down at the smiling double of his deceased acquaintance. Beneath the gloss of the photo-finish, John is proud. Terrified. Normal. He looks normal, anyway. He looks _alive_, imbued with dimension and depth and space, as if Carlos were observing him through a dust-caked window. But it is an illusion. An innocent, if morbid illusion, warped by lines and curves that steadily begin to blur, though the Baron suspects that this is not entirely the fault of the photograph itself.

He swallows past the soreness in his throat, and he can almost hear the image speaking:

_Yes, Monday last—I remember, because it all began the day after I got my picture taken. For an article. That's why I was checkin' the paper. There was supposed to be an article about London's best greengrocers. It must've been delayed, though, what with all of the… well…_

"But… but that's poppycock!" Carlos manages, the protest no more than a hoarse whisper as he quickly shuffles the photo back across the table. In his hurry, his knuckles knock against the tea caddy, the waste bowl, nearly spilling dregs and dried leaves all over pallid finery. The photo is abandoned half-way to its destination, sightless eyes and vapid smile left to entertain the ceiling. The longer the Scientist stares, the more disturbing John's image becomes—warping in ways that tears cannot be blamed for. His happy grin morphs into lockjaw; his soft gaze hardens with the terror of the trapped. Carlos nearly whimpers in gratitude when Cecil nimbly plucks the print from its perch atop a plate and slips it back into his vest. "It cannot… It cannot be— no! And even if it _were _true, _somehow_, it is certainly not the work of Talbot himself! Nor any other respectable scientist who dabbles in the development of photography! I am quite sure of this!"

"Sure enough to wager London?"

The Baron starts, spine stiffening to straightness. "I…" he flounders, but can say no more. It does not matter. It tells Cecil enough.

The other man nods, collected in his sympathy. "I have no doubts that you are right to defend the honor of the majority of your peers, kind Carlos," he assures, leaning daintily into the cushioned embrace of his chair. The ebony ironwork of interlocking vines cradles him from behind, coils around him near the arms— thrones him with the regality of a chessboard's black king, missing only a crown of flowers. Carlos wonders (with the transitory desperation of a man in need of any harmless distraction) if Dana and Maureen will soon remedy this. In the meantime, Cecil wears a haloing ring of sunshine. Its gleam glints off the golden filaments plaited through his ashen tresses, much as his fingers shine like slippery onyx as he weaves his words midair. "But for as well-intended and valiant as most scientists are, there are undoubtedly… others. Those who work not to benefit mankind, but to benefit themselves. An order of them, or some sort of organization. I imagine such a society would bear the blunt of the blame for this, for going out of their way to prove such superstitions true. Mad scientists, we might say. Like in the pennydreadfuls."

Cecil pauses then, fingers folded and dangling like the legs of a great spider. The Scientist is not surprised to find himself imagining sticky webs and ensnaring threads, stories that cobweb the brain. With forced calm, Carlos charts those gossamer strands: follows their uneven but beautiful spiral inward, tracing it back to its center. To the start.

"So…" he summarizes shakily, using his own hands to try and compress this overwhelming surge of data into something compact. Something comprehensible. "Using black magic and new technologies, we can surmise that this nameless organization has developed a camera, and a film, which can accomplish exactly what the masses fear."

"What we should _all_ fear, my Lord," the Marquis corrects, promptly but with gentleness. With fastidiousness, but also grave insistence. "A human without a soul of their own is a terrifying thing—an empty husk into which anything can be filled."

"Including demons?"

"Especially demons," Cecil intones, _insists_, his rejoinder gut-twistingly austere. Behind the crystal of his spectacles, the young man's eerie eyes have grown round in exasperation, though Carlos suspects that the brunt of that ire is directionless. Mister Palmer is frustrated, yes, but by the memories of his own experiences, not the other's lack of them. "Oh, _especially _demons, my dear. For who among us does not already carry within our hearts a plethora of personal demons? Without a human soul to hide behind, to be _caged_ by, those wicked things are all but made to manifest."

The claim is considered. With intentional detachment, Carlos contemplates this newly gifted information: mentally evaluates it, contrasted against what he has both observed and deduced. Measures it against principles he is already familiar with. Sets it up against rules of science and laws of logic. Against human nature.

And it holds. Somehow, it makes sense. Somehow, _somehow_, all of this is coming together, clicking into place like puzzle pieces. The ease with which he accepts the resultant picture as truth almost frightens him.

The Baron suckles down a deep breath, the misty moistness flavored predominantly of petrichor. Primarily of petrichor. But there is something else beneath that heady freshness, hidden and horrible: like beetle shells tossed in amongst the candied almonds decorating a cake. A curdling acidity lurks like an aftertaste, a sour stench that coats the back of the tongue. Ozone. Ozone and…

"And… And so John…"

The Marquis nods. Once. It is enough.

"Yes. 'And so John.'"

_"On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves_

_Washes the grave with silvery tears_

_A soldier cleans and polishes a gun…_"

"But— But what dastardly institute would commission something so grotesque?!" Carlos demands, not in objection now but in stomach-turning disgust. He rakes a hand through the curling mess of his locks, as if trying to yank ideas from the roots of his hair. Who does he know? Who could it be? What contact, what guild? He has interviewed so many, gained access to countless libraries, given talks at numerous institutions. _Surely_ there must be one suspicious colleague, one noticeable loony— one needle in the haystack, if he could only remember where he'd spotted its metallic shine. But no, he can't. He can't recall anyone. Not at present, at least. He has always been more of a lecturer than a conversationalist, and the names and faces of those he had met at charities and conferences are even hazier in the wake of multiple concussions. Fuzzier than anything else that he'd kept stored in his head. _Dammit…_ "What would be the point? What would be the _gain?_ What would drive anyone to attempt something so petrifying and cruel? What possible benefit could there be in depriving another living creature of their own sense of self?!"

Cecil makes no interruption, other than to cock an eyebrow in curiosity. His surprise seems sincere, if a touch incredulous. "Oh, but there are so many," he coolly assures, with a silken softness that is so delicately sheer, so impossibly gauzy, that it barely reaches Carlos' end of the table before disintegrating into silence. Yet, despite its etherealness—or, perhaps, because of it— the quiet riposte effortlessly smothers every last consonant of his companion's outraged cries, deflating them of ire in much the same way that the Scientist's lungs deflate of air.

He feels as if he has been kicked. Or thrown against another tree. The sensation clears his mind of all else, leaving him to fill that emptiness with whatever the Marquis utters next.

"Think for a spell," the other encourages, lacing his legs with the same deftness with which he works his words. His hands bloom, his expression blooms, his flowers bloom behind him on the wind-wound posts: dew-tipped morning glories, unfurling like desire beneath beating, heart-shaped leaves. "What holds we humans back? Why, humanity does. Our own weak flesh, imbued with so many superfluous emotions. Without a heart, what beauty could distract us? Without a mind, what thought could stop us? Without a soul, what morality could coral us? We would be terrible, but we would be inexorable."

Loops of ivy tighten, holding together more than wooden beams. The gazebo groans, if pleasantly, beneath the strength of the plant's corroding affection. The Marquis' features twist, equally pliant. He and his garden are one in the same: matched in secrets, in beauty, and in the unspoken promise of inevitable destruction. The epiphany has Carlos remembering old studies on botany, and the importance of concealed roots. How those interlocking networks, labyrinthine in design, would feast on decomposing sacrifices in exchange for waylaying the destruction of an area's topography, ecosystem, and other natural things; Mister Palmer, with his rosebud cheeks and spindled fingers, acts in kind for the supernatural. As do the associates who call Night Vale home. They are weeds who reach deep into the dark, even if they appear unassuming on the surface. In that sense, they are not unlike most other people.

Cecil continues, as if in agreement.

"People are wicked creatures, Sir Scientist. We build castles on foundations of bone, make mortar from the spilt blood of children. We sacrifice the living, bury them breathing within their own graves, and in egotism assume that the souls of these victims will protect our creations after death. That they will appreciate—even in the throes of unimaginable agony!— why their demises are evolutionary necessities. And perhaps there is appreciation. Our buildings still stand, after all, and are only growing higher, built up on so many corpses. We humans will do atrocious things for the sake of ingenuity. It is why the devils are so taken with us," the Marquis murmurs, wafting a palm with dismissive ease. The gesture produces a brisk, cool gust, but Carlos does not blame it for his sudden chill. He blames other things, instead. Other thoughts, other truths. Other movements: malleable lips pursing and pulling at sounds and syllables, yes, but also at heartstrings and logos. At the mind and the spirit and the whole construct of this world, exposing the rot beneath the varnish and laying it all bare. And Carlos examines these remains with enthusiasm; he listens and he learns. He listens and he questions. He listens and he _accepts_.

He listens and he asks,

"Is it why you are so taken with me?"

It is Cecil's turn to start.

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Ask him to reap it with a sickle of leather,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_And gather it all with a rope made of heather_

_Then he'll be a true love of mine."_

"You, Mister Palmer," the Baron repeats, with a boldness that catches him equally off-guard. But Carlos finds that he is perversely pleased by his own bravery, by his ability to startle so unflappable a man; he tips forward, just a centimeter, and confesses, "I cannot wrap my mind around it, try as I may and as much as I might wish to. One moment, you are as ingenuous as a duckling. The next, you speak like some eldritch horror, telling people of their fates and casting monsters into jewels. Not to mention commanding some hellish beast of your own, if I am to believe what my eyes told me that night!"

"'Hellish beast'?" the Marquis echoes, head cocking at an 'ingenuous duckling' sort of angle. His lashes flurry, beating against his cheeks like the translucent wings of twin insects. "You speak of my Jade Cat, I presume…? Ah, I see," he muses when the other nods, the elegantly bewildered expression smoothing into something amused. Not quite demeaning, but certainly full of meaning. Carlos finds that the lilt of that smile rubs him the wrong way: it leaves him shifting, ill-at-ease. To be regarded in such a manner by someone so much younger seems a bit unnatural. But he pushes the curdling sensation aside when Cecil chortles, long and low— long and low, like the svelte fingers that slip (_shamelessly_) from the cap of his knee, up the camber of his thigh, over the jut of his hip, as they quest out another waistcoat pocket. "I do so hate to disappoint you, lovely Carlos, but I am not nearly as exceptional as I fear you may be assuming. Allow me to reintroduce you to Ohr."

An extended fist hangs above the tea pot, the pale blue of exposed veins strangely silver in the shadows. Like a sunflower, the leather petals peel back, one finger at a time; in its center rests a creature small and lifelike enough to be some companion of Thumbelina.

Only now, the figure isn't alive.

It is a stone. It is _jade_, a very pure chunk of it, tenderly carved into the image of a feral feline. Which, if nothing else, does explain a few things about its name. The hewn gem's coloring is identical to that which Carlos had observed on the creature of electricity and light: golden ear tips, violet paws, forest green body. But this token does not prowl like a lynx, or shoot sparks from grinding fangs. No, it simply sits—like any talisman might—atop the exposed flesh of Cecil's half-gloved palm, roughly the size of a pair of stacked sugar cubes. The sunken lines of its eyes glower darkly, even as the sun's gentle rays cover it in loving caresses.

"But that's…!" Carlos begins feebly, his hands reaching out to hover awkwardly around this bizarre specimen. His immediate and most fervent wish is to express the sheer impossibility of what Cecil is suggesting, the utter ludicrousness of it all... but then the Scientist remembers who, exactly, he is talking to, and all that he himself has now seen. That impulse is hastily swallowed—physically, judging by the workings of his throat— and hesitantly replaced by, "How… How does it work?"

The Marquis looks pleased. Carlos cannot help but assume that it's because he had asked the right question. "In a manner quite similar to that which you hypothesized in a recently penned paper," he is told, the precious amulet set atop a bone china platter with a tinny tap of its detailed base. Angled outward, the cat watches its master's tea party from this new vantage point, its gaze cutting through raised tiers of sweets and pushing on towards the lawns. "In certain cases, inanimate bodies might be re-gifted life—if provisionally— via an electrical push. The human body is full of such energy. Every thought in our head, every twitch of our feet, every smile on our faces comes at the price of a small, static blast. I pay that price to Ohr."

"But there is no way that a human being could produce enough electricity to simultaneously propel two bodies!" the Baron balks, his tongue stumbling over the words in his eagerness. A million other queries splutter about in the trap of his gullet, but the majority of them— the actual process of exchanging these energies, the purpose of the pentacles he had seen, the fact that a _rock _should not have any sort of nervous system to activate— are far more than his brain can handle, at present. He can hardly process the answer of the single question he'd posed.

"Oh? Have you done much research in that area, Sir Scientist?" Cecil inquires, with a politeness that is not feigned, but is not entirely sincere, either. The faint tic of his grin gives him away, as does the humor that pools in the expression's corners. He knows.

And really, that should make admitting to the truth easier. But it doesn't. Of course it doesn't. Instead, the prompt serves to make the Scientist feel even further out of his depth, lost in a sea of new knowledge. Discomfited by his own lack of expertise—yet simultaneously thrilling in so nostalgic a sensation—, Carlos toggles with the buttons on his cuff, gnawing his lower lip with enough vigor to leave indentations.

"W-well… No, I suppose not, but…"

"_War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions_

_Generals order their solders to kill_

_And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten…_"

"In that case, allow me to answer the question that you did not quite ask," Cecil croons over the itinerant lyrics of the melancholy melody. His near-iridescent lashes are fanned, heavy with significance; he has built towers and steeples from the tips of his fingers, and watches Carlos from above those parapets with the omnipotence of a god. "I am human, my Lord. I assure you, I myself am so very, very human. However, the work performed by those associated with this manor requires a—shall we say— mystical flair… As you may or may not have noticed when collaborating with Scoutmaster Harlan." The Marquis pauses then, nodding in the direction of the house. To glance wistfully towards the open window of a different guest bedroom, from which Earl had earlier declined an invitation to join them for elevens. "As predominant, yet elusive individuals in this modern day society, I recognize that we may initially appear a trifle paranormal. At least, when compared to our peers. However, I would be amiss if I failed to remind you that there are people the world over who have trained for many, many years, and who have reached similar precipices of power. Monks who can regulate the beatings of the heart; men who live unclothed and comfortable in perpetual arctic weather; women who can retain air long enough to be mistaken for mermaids. I like to think of myself as no more than one of those talented fellows. If you will forgive the inherent vanity in saying so," he swiftly adds, with just enough sheepishness to evoke modesty.

But then Cecil waffles, and that elegant embarrassment escalates: morphing into something profoundly self-conscious and unusually endearing. He looks away, demure, a hand lifts to knead nervously at the camber of his throat. "In truth," the Marquis continues, with a shyness that seems out of place on one with such incredible charisma, "I will confess that for as much as I yearn to earn your friendship, sweet Carlos, I fear you will find me quite dull before too long."

And it's rude, Carlos knows, but he cannot help it: he snorts. Loudly. Candidly. Not only in exasperation at his host— that he might now recant so meekly after his many ardent attempts at gaining the Baron's attentions—, but also at the supreme preposterousness of his proposal. Dull? This? Them? Never. No, never, because Carlos had been _wrong_. A lifetime of study, of practicality, of trying to educate the world out of the backwater stereotypes that they had applied to him like shackles, all for the crime of his race… Everything, all of that, had been wrong. And the notion that he had entertained as a boy, that there was in fact a whole _world _of magic and intrigue and unexplored science out there… _That _had been correct, and true, and here he is sitting on the very verge of Wonderland, having tea with a jubilant Cheshire Cat. Well, perhaps not 'jubilant;' a warily enthusiastic Cheshire Cat, maybe. One who has temporarily misplaced its smile, choosing instead to look miffed at having his fears laughed at. Fortunately, Mister Palmer is beautifully mollified when the Scientist flashes him a lopsided grin: all perfect white teeth and stirrings of goodwill.

"I rather doubt that," Carlos assures, the acerbic mirth in his voice replaced by golden honey. And Cecil, bless him, is immediately caught up in the sound of it, ensnared by the Baron's excitement and his treacle-sweet delight. For all of the poise and wise authority that he had so recently displayed, the Marquis now resembles a child on cusp of a sugar rush: cradling his chin in his hands as he hungrily regards the eye-candy before him. The Baron decides to be flattered by this. And, perhaps, wryly charmed. "Truly, you have nothing to fear in that regard, Mister Palmer. I— You, and Earl, and all of this… this whatever-it-is-that-you-do, it's—it's _fascinating_. Night Vale is easily the most scientifically interesting estate that I have ever had the pleasure of visiting."

"And you are welcome to visit it whenever you please," Cecil chirps keenly, if a touch too quickly. Overeager, as usual. The whole of him is practically aglow with earnestness, elbows bordering his teacup and impossible eyes impossibly bright. "My offer remains, my Lord. On the table, where I metaphorically—or literally, should you prefer— lay my cards before you. I am in need of a Scientist, and you are in need of stimulation. I can offer all that you desire if you see fit to grant me your amity."

The invitation is premature, surely. Or, at least, the sentiments which Carlos suspects have been attached to it are. Still, the incredible earnestness of Cecil's regard is enough to birth butterflies in the pit of the Baron's belly: a small swarm of them, straggled but thrilled. Behind the statuesque Marquis, a similar rabble is dancing across the azure-blue of the sky. A rainbow flock. They glimmer, daylight winking off diaphanous wings. A few of their number join their friend upon the daffodils; one perches itself in the tassel of Maureen's left braid, as if a sort of ornament. Another lands on the ledge of an unlocked casement. The final ventures farther still, tottering on a balmy gust, before alighting with unknown significance upon the rubbery bloom of a moonflower. It opens its lacy wings, revealing countless staring eyes.

The Scientist shivers, unnerved. Atop his lap, his hands are trembling.

But he is still beaming.

"I feel as if I am making a deal with the Devil," Carlos admits to his attentive host, though not without some humor. And Cecil, hearing it, chuckles himself: a savory, soulful sound, harmonizing with the groan of his wirework chair as he leans languid against its back. Comfortable and content, the Marquis indulges in another long sip of his spiced beverage, hooded eyes glittering as he watches the Baron slide something pale and flat across the linens of the tabletop.

A calling card, plain and perfect. Plain and perfect and definitively earned. Delight unfurls across Cecil's features like so much ivy, spiraling outward and flowering in white rose bursts behind his ethereal eyes. In some hidden gorge of Carlos' mind, left fissured in the wake of earthquakes and cranial abuse, a shadow—like a memory— rises in mimicry of that imagined flora. No, not rises. It _grows_. _They _grow. Vines unfurl like wisps of smoke, braiding through a trellis of tresses; blooms appear in bright bursts against a pale sheet of hair. Beneath the possessive talons of thorns, pallid skin sloughs in clumps like dirt, the snarled roots of veins snapping audibly once exposed. Yet, the creature comprised of those rubbery sprouts shows no fear. The sweep of Its smile cracks Its jaw in two as mud oozes from the sockets of Its eyes, sand susurrating down bleached tubes of bone. It is unfinished leather, larva, and topsoil. One of the butterflies perches upon the exposed fossil of the figure's chin and spreads painted wings into a smirk. The expression drips, smeared like watercolors or wax or liquidized flesh.

It melts. All of it, everything, as if trickling through fingers. The image sinks into the loam as the Baron might into the mire of unconsciousness: quickly enough to lose himself in an instant. Slowly enough to know the clawing panic of sudden loss.

The Scientist blinks, and loses even that feeling. But…

"Well," the Marquis purrs, ever so soft, as the jagged tips of his leer peek over the lip of his cup, "The only thing more terrifying than seeing the Devil is no longer being able to see the Devil. Do you not agree?"

To his own surprise, Carlos finds that he does.

**X**

"_Now he has asked me questions of three,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_I hope he'll answer as many for me_

_Then he'll be a true love of mine."_

"The life of a Scout really doesn't leave time for parties, hm? Not even tea parties."

The second story guest suite is a tastefully macabre room, trimmed in bleeding cherry wood and textured mauve wallpaper. Its decorations are limited primarily to furniture—an armoire, a bookshelf, a nightstand— all whittled from that same tree. This is true as well of the four-poster's frame, which now straddles the floor laths atop the ever-fluxing boarder of light and shadow. On its left, past panes of parted glass and a lounging butterfly, a tune sung by giggling girls drifts prettily; on its right, the looming wall is heavy with a series of aged portraits: somber, grim-faced men, whom it can be suspected are all of Palmer lineage. They share the same facial structure, anyway, though their eyes and hair differ in color. It is from gazing at this assumed family tree that Carlos interrupts Earl, who appears as unsurprised by Carlos' visit as Carlos had been surprised by his desperate need to talk with the Scout.

Earl huffs a breath that may have been a laugh, the movement gently jostling the strewn sheets of the mattress beneath him. Clothes, supplies, and trinkets have been scattered across the bedding, placed in neat piles beside a shoulder bag. He had been packing. The Baron wonders at this, leaning against the door jamb with a nonchalance to mimic the redhead's own. With a glance through the veil of his bangs, Earl smirks; his bones groan faintly as he leans his elbows against his knees, a bolt of scarlet fabric draped between them. Broad hands hold the cloak around its throat, strangling it lovingly.

"It is one of our greatest burdens," the Scout eventually returns, the retort intoned with a sardonic solemnity to match his visitor's. "Second only to our satchels."

He jabs a thumb in his bag's direction, as if it weren't easily noticeable. Or, perhaps, to remind himself of its existence. For as he speaks, Earl tosses his worn mantle over the gaping door of the wardrobe and pushes himself to his feet, turning back towards the task it seems he'd only momentarily abandoned. The Scientist straightens too, arms crossed loosely over his waistcoat, as he regards the nimble movements of the larger man: his sand-colored trousers, tucked into high-laced boots; the prudent roll of white cuffs over ropy muscles, scarred skin… Carlos does not yet know Earl well enough to make any assumptions on the subject, but he suspects the Scout's swift return to the chore and his arrival in the room are not entirely unconnected.

"Does Miss Dana sing in your honor, Sir?" the Baron inquires, careful to keep his tone conversational. He feels like a child trespassing on a parent, unsure whether his presence is welcome or merely tolerated. When he is not explicitly shooed away, he takes a single step inside, lingering between the paintings and the rummaging Scout. "Are you going to Scarborough Fair?"

The question is innocuous. A joke, really—Scarborough hasn't hosted its celebrated fair in over a century, and everyone knows that. But still, the query brings Earl to a pause.

No. No, the other does not just pause—he _freezes_. In an instant, his every joint jams, his sinewy ligaments stiffen. The bony wings of his shoulders scrape against the drape of his linen shirt, dragging across the fabric like dull marble blades. As Earl turns his head, it is with a grind like stone on stone. He has become stone, and carved into the shape of a gargoyle: the sort of demonic guardian that decorates gothic towers, wide-eyed and _real_. Something that threatens to crack free of its cement shell.

The stare with which Earl regards Carlos is unreadable, but dangerous. There is something feral within the glass of it, something wild behind the impassive mask of his features. Its sudden appearance is enough to make the Baron's pulse spike. His heart trips as it skips, its tender flesh landing painfully against the cage of his ribs; Carlos knows he'd be taking a very large step backwards if he could trust his wobbling knees to withstand a shift of his weight. But he doesn't. He doesn't, and so he is forced to stand his ground: to endure the Scout's appraising stare with what might appear to be bravery, but both men know is not.

It should be mortifying. It should be degrading. And yet, even realizing this, the Baron is not ashamed. He has no reason to be, because in appreciating his own fear, he comes to recognize the emotion trapped within his companion's russet eyes. He offers Earl a smile that is wavering, but benign. Its sweep is analyzed for a series of endless seconds, scrutinized for tells that Carlos could only hope to guess at… But then its arc is mirrored, the curve of it heavy with a sincerity that catches the Scientist by surprise.

"…perhaps," Earl tells him quietly, his quavering lashes casting shadows as dark as his lilted chortle. He turns back to his belongings with rediscovered adroitness, grabbing and folding and discarding and selecting with the grace of one who has much practice at the task. As his movements gain speed, so does his conversation. "Perhaps not. But that is hardly a concern of yours. Or even a concern of mine, at present. More concerning to me," the Scout sighs, tossing a muslin shirt into his rucksack, "is what I shall be apologizing for, Sir, when Mister Palmer demands to know why I stole from him your attentions."

There is a hint of jest in the Scout's tone. It has Carlos fearing that he is not joking at all. The Baron glances fleetingly towards the window, past its frame and over the lawn; from the second story, he can see the distant gazebo with ease, though its roof obscures the face of the one he left waiting within. Details are hazed by shade and sunlight, but if he squints he can make out one delicate ankle laced behind another, the straightness of an upheld spine, the seamless weave of gloved fingers. He wonders at the expression of the eccentric man, alone in the aftermath of getting exactly what he wanted. "I came to say that you were right, Master Harlan," Carlos says to the Scout—much as he'd said to Cecil a few minutes ago.

Earl— again, much as Cecil a few minutes ago—, does not seem overly impressed by this pronouncement. He continues leafing through a sheave of loose parchment with a wetted thumb, grunting in vague acknowledgement. "I often am," he quips only after his count comes to an end, gingerly shuffling the paper into the front of his bag. The heavy stock is joined by a pen, cased protectively in notched wood. "Might I inquire as to what, specifically, in this case?"

"This way of life."

A hum. The Scout smirks, nodding in understanding. There is one last parcel on his bed— a case of brown leather. The hide has been worn to softness by abuse and lack of polish, decorated with rain-stained brass fasteners and unusually sized. It is suited for flats, not much else. With a reverence that Carlos is starting to see patterns in, Earl lifts its tapered flap and extracts its hidden bounty: a set of cards with variegated backs. In the aftermath of unspoken hypotheses, the Scientist is not shocked. Instead, spurred by his accuracy, he begins to compile more data, comparing what he has already observed to what he is observing now. Size, shape, flashes of stylized faces. He cannot but note how the colors of these cards seem impossibly vivid, at least when compared to those he had seen spread out on a bar stand. Vibrant from a deferential sort of disuse, he suspects. One callused hand cradles the tarot's weight as the other dissects it from its middle, wrapping its insides around its outsides and once more and again. An easy shuffle, the kind used to keep edges flat and corners sharp. He remembers Cecil— the strident, nigh-careless snap of his deck— and thinks immediately of friendship: the difference in dealing with companions who are dearly loved, well-respected, and held in the highest of esteem… and those who are not, in fact, friends at all, but instead something more intimate and exploitable. A heart. A family. Cherished, and thus treated without any regard whatsoever.

He watches Earl for a minute, drawn and silent, allowing himself to be lulled by the hypnotic, cyclical dance of the cards. End over end, end over end, a few flats breaching their brethren and inverting themselves in enthusiasm. There may well be a metaphor here, Carlos mulls, remembering the events of these past few weeks. Thinking on the events of the present. For just as the tarot moves and leaps and makes its decisions, the cards themselves remain, as ever, caught in a tender embrace. Trapped.

The Baron works his throat, swallowing this realization like a sugar pill.

"'If you choose this way of life, there will be no escaping it,'" he whispers again, a distant, belated echo of the other's gifted wisdom, though the words ring without the well-intended warning of before. They are empty. Hollow in a way that only an accepted truth can be.

The cards cease their tumbling, but Earl's gentle hold upon them—upon the Scientist—remains openly possessive.

"Would you want to escape?" the Scout inquires, with a casualness which borders the deceptive. He cocks his head, like a door cracked open. Like he is nodding towards some secret rabbit hole that Alice might yet use to flee to freedom. But Carlos knows better now. Knows that behind the door is a concrete wall. That within the hole awaits a hungry snake.

Still, he huffs an ironic laugh, dry mirth wheezing through his nose.

"Only a fool would answer no."

The feisty bluntness is rewarded by a chortle. Earl smirks: a man caught in his own trickery, punched by his own punch line. It tickles him as little else had. "Well, that does stand to follow," he merrily replies, with a cheerful depreciation that falls just short of self-pity, "for I so happen to be a Fool. But not you," he then adds in pensive afterthought. A gnawed frown thins the corners of his lips; Earl gives his deck one last ruffle, considering the Baron like a card that he is trying to divine. "No, you are the Magician, I suspect."

Carlos is still not shocked. He wonders briefly if he will ever feel shocked again. Briefly and rhetorically, but still, some removed part of himself sees fit to answer with an immediate and resounding _yes_. That does not shock him, either. But neither does he care, right now.

"You are the second to tell me as much," the Scientist confesses, more in amusement than anything else. A shoulder falls again against the jamb, perching comfortably; a brow lifts as if in challenge. "Would you call me ill-dignified, too?"

"I would never be so rude," Earl assures, with an indignation as contrived as his guest's. The Scout slants the other a sidelong glance, his expression tinged equally with sympathy and sarcasm. "Though considering all that you have recently suffered, no one could blame you for feeling as if you'd been turned on your head."

The reminder elicits a soft murmur: a drone of sound that in no way resembles the buzzing that Carlos had so long endured. At the memory, the Baron nevertheless touches his temple. He still feels a bit empty between the ears… But he anticipates filling that space soon. After all, he has a great deal of new information he needs to file away. Experiments that he looks forward to performing. Old theses to revise and future ones to outline.

"Strangely," Carlos admits a minute later, with a soft veneration that he suspects Earl will be able to empathize with, "this is the first time in many months that I feel as if I am standing upright and on solid ground. I thank you for that. All of you."

The Scout nods. He seems satisfied by this announcement, if the smoothness of his features is anything to judge by. And in being so satisfied, Earl is freed from any obligations he may have felt compelled to deal with, any concerns he might have assumed he would be required to address. He can dedicate himself to his own business. Unneeded, and thus unused, Earl slides his tarot deck back into its protective case. The holder is then snapped to the right hip of his belt, resting against the knob of his bone; its heft is unevenly balanced by a small, velvet bag, strung through and dangling against his left. "I am pleased to hear as much," Earl comments as he works, knotting the ties and noosing the buttons of his bag. "You will make the Marquis much more auspicious company that way."

"_Only_ the Marquis?"

_"On the side of a hill in deep forest green_

_Beneath the flowers on snow-crested grounds_

_Coffins and crosses, the Child of the Mountain_

_Sleeps without hearing the clarion call…_"

The Earl of Harlan is not a baroque beauty. Not in the way that his charge is, all slender limbs and porcelain skin and moonlight aura of ethereal gossamer. Untouchable, even when he is touched. No, the Scout is more substantial than that, more earthy. Tangible. The unlikely twosome are nothing alike, Carlos observes, as he mentally compares them. If Cecil is a doll sculpted from gemstones and ivory, then Earl is a tree left to grow in the wild, too common or damaged to merit the crafting of treasures. And yet, like a tree, he is lovely in his own way: marring freckles and knotted muscles and sun-worn skin, sturdy and sheltering and rooted in his own reality. The two are ground and sky, sharing air, a horizon, and one physical trait: their lashes, long and pale and fanned. The fringes feather broodingly when lowered in black humor, curled like springs from broken clocks.

Time stands still for an instant. So do the men.

"In tarot," Earl finally comments, with an indifference that does nothing to belay the gravity of the conversation, "the Fool is the first of the Major Arcana. Can you deduce its ranking?"

Carlos cannot. One and one can either be two or eleven; Wonderland is a world without math. Nevertheless, he shrugs and answers, "One, I would assume."

He knows he is wrong the same instant the Scout grins. It does not bother him. Rather, Carlos takes some comfort in the certainty of his uncertainty, the conviction in his lack of it. Even knowing that he knows nothing is knowing something, after all.

"An educated guess," Earl commends with kindness, synching a final pouch and twisting its thong into a neat bow. His profile is outlined in the filtered gold of early afternoon, his hair transmogrified into a halo of cold embers. Those lacelike lashes smolder, trembling. And even if they had not had work to prudently fix on, Carlos suspects that the other's dark stare would have remained pointedly elsewhere upon sharing this secret with him. "However, your education betrays you, and I fear my vocation as a Scout Master compels me to correct mistakes. No, the Fool is not ranked first. That honor belongs to the Magician, my Lord. The Fool, good Sir, is zero. Chronologically, it might come before the other, this is true. However, it has no place at all. It is unnecessary."

"But you _aren't_."

The retort is immediate, passionate. _Loud_. Earl's head snaps up like a man shocked— by electricity, not surprise. That said, it is the latter emotion that registers in his stiff shoulders and piercing gaze, bounding down his spine in a series of crackling arches. Flint-and-tinder vertebrate strike and spark; the Scout turns his face towards the Scientist, flame-bright eyes wide amongst his closed features. That fire spreads. Carlos can feel the burn of it beneath the press of his palm, its heat reflected in his own cheeks.

"T-that is," the Baron stumbles, the tips of his ears coloring. He feels poignantly like the aforementioned Fool, "I would ask you to forgive my impudence, particularly in regards to matters of which I know little about. Still, I cannot but assume that if that card were gratuitous, Sir, it would not have been included at all." He twiddles a gesture that may have been dismissive, may have been flustered. It is difficult to tell, especially as his voice gains a gradual sense of surety. "While my knowledge is lacking in many fields, I _am_ fluent in the gentlemanly art of parlor games— if only to compensate for my wanting social skills—, and so I can assert with some confidence that the loss of a single flat is enough to render a deck next to useless."

Earl is still staring. Unmoving. Unspeaking. The Scientist assumes he has at least blinked— he must have, at some point, at least once— but if so, he had missed it. Carlos feels as if he has missed a great many things. But what he cannot, _does not_ miss is a subtle twitch of Earl's chin. The faintest tweak of his pursed lips. A distant glimmer, set so deeply within the cosmos of his eyes that its light may well have come from across the universe. But for as miniscule as each shift is, the resulting change is cataclysmic.

Something incorporeal crumbles between them. And when the Scout offers the Baron a simper that is so small, so lackluster, that it hardly constitutes a smile at all, it feels oddly like a victory. For all of its dullness, the expression is genuine, unguarded: warmed by a candidness that might someday become fondness. For now, it is tolerance, and respect, and challenge.

"You are kind to say as much," the Earl comments, hefting his small satchel over the camber of one shoulder. The cloth rucksack knocks against his back with a soundless thump, then settles comfortably. Much like the air in the guest suite. Much like life. "Well then," he continues, with a newfound geniality that carves dimples into his spattered cheeks, "Think of me not as a lost card, but as temporarily absconded. That flat which has a strange tendency of cropping up, unannounced, behind your couch or underneath your bed."

Earl still hasn't blinked. Carlos blinks twice, as if in compensation.

"That's… a bit terrifying, actually."

"_If he says that he can't, then I shall reply_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_'Oh, let me know that at least you will try_

_Or you'll never be a true love of mine.'"_

The lyrics are suddenly muffled; the Scout is really on his way, now. The bedspread has been smoothed, the window closed. His scarlet cloak is snatched as he passes the armoire, its patched hem swelling and snapping against booted shins. The burgundy fabric heralds as much as it trails, and Earl sweeps into the gothic opulence of the narrow hall with all of the stately nobility of a rather hurried prince. Plush rugs, candelabras, and ancient indigo paper cast the foyer into countless shades of twilight, despite the sunny time of day; a kaleidoscopic dawn comes only as they near the warped curve of a staircase, its numerous steps glittering in the fragmented light of the rose window set high above the entryway.

"Earl?" Carlos says over the sprightly fall of their feet, the polished banister slipping beneath his palm in much the same way that the name slips between his lips. He has only half-tackled the steps when the other has reached the landing. For a split second, Carlos fears that the Scout will ignore him in favor of escape, but no—Earl is a gentleman, and so he pauses at his name. Glances around, and up, so that the sightless black angel and white stone demon crowning the final balustrades appear to be resting upon his shoulders.

"Yes, Sir Scientist?" he drawls in answer, eyebrow cocked in a show of indulgence. Since it would be rude to move his feet, Earl finds contentment in moving his hands; lissome fingers perfect the drape of his mantle, pinning it into place with a gilded broach of red moonstone. The rust-colored gem, round and flat as a skipping stone, joins rising motes of dust in glinting, rosy in the variegated sunlight. It is, the Baron admits to himself, less impressive a jewel than the cut of ruby which had glittered upon Earl's throat in his greenhouse. But he can also sense that its selection is far more significant. More personal. "Pray, for what reason do you seek my attention now?"

"May I…" Carlos hesitates, chewing his words in much the same way he does his inner cheek. He shouldn't ask. He really shouldn't. He should cover the slip with something inane. A farewell would be appropriate. A wish for safe returns. But even perfect teeth are not enough to cage scientific curiosity; the Baron eases down the remaining stairs—one by one, ginger and chary— closing the space between them with a delicacy that his tone reflects. "May I ask you one question?"

Earl's returning stare is bland, expectant. "You may always ask," he reminds coolly, standing his ground as the descending Carlos inches closer. "I simply do not promise an answer."

They are face to face now. Almost nose to nose. The Baron, tall already, tries to utilize the height granted to him by the final step: grasps the handrails and wills an assertive aura, attempting to make himself Earl's equal through stature alone. It does not help. Carlos rather doubts a ladder would help in that regard, for even without the ability to loom, the Scout knows how to make himself a tower.

A very guarded tower, twined in ivy.

"It's about Mister Palmer," Carlos warns, almost peculiarly gentle, his blithe tone at odds with eyes that are as flinty in their obstinacy as Earl's. Unwavering. His nails dig into the soft lacquer of the banisters, but less to show tension and more to display stubbornness. To make it clear that he is not going anywhere. That he will not be ignored. And Earl, to his credit, does not ignore him. He does not say anything, and he does not do anything, but Earl does not ignore him.

The Scientist takes a breath.

"Your loyalty to the Marquis is… Well. It is such that I recognize the honor that you bestow upon me by leaving him, if briefly, in my charge," he says, with a forthrightness that makes clear his comprehension of the situation's gravitas. If this declaration serves to reassure the Earl in any way, however, his expression betrays nothing. As before, he only stares. It is unnerving, certainly, but not enough to dissuade; the Baron presses on, undaunted, with an earnest eagerness that grants him eloquence. "I may have been distracted these past few weeks— to say the very least— but not nearly so terribly that I might have failed to notice a veneration so apparent. Yes, having paid witness to your interactions, having seen firsthand the extent of your respect and adoration… Having watched you fight alongside and against one another, I think I can finally claim to understand what you spoke of in my conservatory. I understand your assertions about what he means to London. I understand, too, what he must mean to a Scout, master or otherwise. But… But Earl, I have to ask," Carlos presses, wary yet desperate, haunted by the hole he'd found in place of completed formulas and final puzzle pieces. "What does he mean to _you_?"

"_On the side of a hill, beneath withered leaves_

_His grave now awash with silvery tears_

_A soldier lies beside his rusting gun…_"

The front door has fallen opened. Somehow. Someway, allowing sun and song to penetrate the sheltered catacombs of Night Vale. The Baron is unsure of the mechanics of the stunt, for Earl had not so much as shifted, much less whisked himself across the vestibule. Had it been improperly latched? Had some faceless spirit played a role? Had the Scout managed the trick through sheer power of will? Carlos searches his mind for an explanation, but is not disappointed when he fails to find one. It does not matter. Not now, anyway. Not in the greater scheme of things. Very few things do, arguably.

But there are always exceptions.

The Scientist weighs this realization on the sloped scale of the Scout's smirk: one corner holding aloft something joyous and light, the other sagging low, encumbered by an undisclosed heaviness. Carlos is granted a single heartbeat to try (and fail) to recognize the obvious—

And then Earl turns away, features vanishing beneath a crimson cowl.

Not a moment later, and the rest of him has vanished, as well.

**X**

"_Love imposes impossible tasks_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_But none more than any heart would ask_

_I must know you're a true love of mine._"

Beneath the vine-strewn eves of a pallid gazebo, a lone figure waits. Sways. Hums playfully along to the meandering melody, grinning with gentle delight and lightly closed eyes. Tasteful foppery murmurs, caught in a swirl of self-made breezes; pale tresses shift, rustling like the roots and tubers of verdant greenery. So much greenery. Woven through the trellises, moonflowers twirl themselves to openness, the silvery bells of their blossoms ringing without sound. Around the legs of the laden table, plaits of bindweed mimic their cousin's chorus, their song smaller but sweeter. Leaflets susurrate beside a tapping foot. Beside a tapping finger, shoots of geranium plume above the lip of a lead crystal vase, their petals as vivid as velvet fireworks. Frozen fireworks, suspended in a single point of time and space. Though the flowers had been plucked too long ago to have retained their lemon zest, this is of no concern to the one admiring them; augmenting stalks of red salvia and tarragon are fragrant enough to induce pleasure.

And there is a very great deal of pleasure here.

"The third Psalm, was it...?"

A lilted chuckle, salaciously sultry and low, echoes through the emptiness. A metallic chitter harmonizes. Pale hands toy with a broach of violet opal, playing with the gem as idly as It does human lives and chess tokens. The latter, at present, is more readily available; It lifts a pair of knights from a strewn and checkered board, black and white and set upon plinths of thriving mulberry. They are lovely, the two of them. Elegant, and hard headed, and completely devoid of any perceived power. Useless, really, without someone to direct them. What a blessing it is then, that they are the king's to do with as is seen fit: to live and love and die on their lord's command.

"How many are your foes, indeed. How many rise up around you, Young Master, that you might cry out with a Voice to shake the Heavens. A pity, then, that there are no holy mountains, Sir. No mountains at all. Nowhere for little children to hide…"

Its considers the hewn pieces—mismatched, yet identical— with a sincerity of emotion that calls not mountains, but oceans to mind: deep, and dark, and riddled with riptides, ready to pull out and drown those who wander too close. A contented simper parts that glittering sea, lips froth-white above a crest of pearly teeth. Bright teeth. _More_ teeth, wickedly sharp, set in impossible, endless rows, serrated and slicing seamlessly through milky sheathes of skin. An ear is nicked in the stroke of it; a drop of honey beads upon the expression's rapier edge, oozing down a pallid temple like a siphoned thought.

"'_And he said to them, 'Out of the eater came something to eat. Out of the strong came something sweet.' And in three days, they could not solve the riddle.'_ Pity that, as well."

A snort. The ebony knight tumbles from its perch with a flick of lazy fingers, dismissive. Bored. Pale eyes do not bother to watch its fall.

Not this time, anyway.

Instead, the Voice cradles Its chin against the back of Its hands, regarding the paler token with Its most honeyed smile. Sugared, dripping. Nectar flows from Its lips in sonorous strands of syrup, unbearably saccharine as It tempts a hungering mind. _If you have found honey, eat only enough for you, lest you have your fill of it and vomit it._ It giggles again at the proverbs of a very Good Book. At waste, and deception, and misunderstandings.

"Well," It coos, ever agreeable, as it dips to whisper secrets into an unhearing ear, "who am I to Judge, really?"

_"Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme…_"

The Demon beams then, adoring, with a mouth like a parting gorge. Its serpentine tongue, clever and tricky, trails the ledge of that leer, licking at the forbidden apple of flushed cheeks. Seeking out the sweet, and the sour, and whatever else lingers, heady and flavored of knowledge. Of Science.

_"Remember me to one who lives there."_

All that remains on Its lips is a taste.

_"He once was a true love of mine._"

But that is enough to whet the appetite.

**XXX**

From _languageofflowers_ and _google_:

Bindweed: Great inspiration

Carnation (yellow): No

Cherry tree (white): Deception

Chrysanthemum (red): I love

Daffodil: Honesty, faithfulness; regard, unanswered love; new beginnings, rebirth

Dandelion: Faithfulness

Geranium (lemon scented): Unexpected meeting

Ivy: Friendship, fidelity

Morning glory: Night, instability

Mulberry tree (black): "I shall not survive you"

Pineapple: "You are welcome," "You are perfect"

Red salvia: Forever mine

Rose (white): "I am worthy of you"

Tarragon: Lasting interest

Tuberose: Dangerous pleasure

Queen Ann's Lace: Sanctity

Moonstone: A stone which assists intuition, invites good fortune, offers protection during travel, and brings success in love and business.

Pearls: A stone for purity and innocence, as well as general protection.

Peridot: A stone which symbolizes purity and morality, particularly in relation to the church. Used additionally for protection against demons.

Psalm 3: Lord, how many are my foes! How many rise up against me! Many are saying to me, "God will not deliver him." But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. I call out to the Lord, and he answers me from His holy mountain. I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me. I will not fear though tens of thousands assail me on every side. Arise, Lord! Deliver me, my God! Strike all my enemies on the jaw; break the teeth of the wicked. From the Lord comes deliverance. May Your blessing be on Your people.

Judges 14:14: Out of the eater came something to eat. Out of the strong came something sweet.' And in three days, they could not solve the riddle.

Proverbs 25:16: If you have found honey, eat only enough for you, lest you have your fill of it and vomit it.


End file.
